


Pursuit of Happiness

by Pinkerton



Series: Sowing Season [5]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Anal Sex, Derogatory Language, Dirty Talk, Drinking, Hooking up, M/M, Marijuana, Non-Linear Narrative, Oral Sex, Past Infidelity, Recreational Drug Use, Summer Vacation, Underage Drinking, a quarter of this story takes place in pools I swear, breaking up, davey is an asshole who doesn't respect women, homophobic parent, other bros on the team are ok, the author writes about Las Vegas without having ever been, the entitlement of professional athletes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-16
Updated: 2019-05-31
Packaged: 2019-08-03 03:36:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16318376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pinkerton/pseuds/Pinkerton
Summary: Kent Parson's 2014-2015 season, plus flashbacks to all sorts of good things, bad things, and of course, Jack Zimmermann.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter goes from zero to smut in about 3 paragraphs, FYI if you're reading in public.

**Santa Monica, Summer 2014**

The breeze coming in as the sun sets smells like ocean, and weed from the next balcony. Kent debates asking Mateo if he’ll bring out the little box he keeps in the coffee table drawer. Neither of them smoke often, but the past few days have been an exercise in how to feel as good as possible while ignoring reality, and it’d be nice to keep it going.

He closes his eyes and shifts on the heavily cushioned lounger, the patch of sunburn on his back just tender enough to sting. He’s drifting a little, the soreness of his limbs as much from the morning and afternoon spent in bed as yesterday’s canyon hike. The robe he’s wrapped in is the first thing he’s worn all day. 

The sound of the balcony door opening is followed by the clink of glass on the side table. “Let me guess,” Kent murmurs, “two glasses of rosé ” 

A soft hand cups his chin and Mateo kisses him. “Rosé all day, babe. Scoot.”

The lounger is big enough for two professional athletes with space left over, but instead of taking advantage of that, Mateo presses his back against Kent’s chest, pulls Kent’s arms around himself. They watch the sunset in content silence, wine going warm on the table.

Last night they’d watched from Venice Beach, feet in the sand, the drum circle going like crazy behind them. It was the last thing on Kent’s summer to do list. He’s leaving for Biosteel Camp the day after tomorrow, and then the movers will come to pack up Mateo for his new life in London.

“Hey,” Mateo says. “I can feel you tensing up.”

“Yeah. I hate breakups.” Kent strokes the back of Mateo’s hand with his thumb and tries to refocus, to be present. 

Mateo shifts in his lap a little, then a little more, and then a little more, till it crosses the line into grinding, his soccer-sculpted ass and thighs doing fantastic things against Kent’s body. “Still time for you to convince the NHL to branch out to England,” he says. “Or you could quit hockey and be a full-time futbol WAG. Bet you could get E! to do a London spin-off of that terrible show --”

“You know you love -- mmm, do that a little faster babe -- you know you love _WAGS LA_ as much as I do, and -- fuck. ”

Mateo slides off the lounger and tugs Kent’s hips to slide him to the edge of the seat, the pain of the friction of the fabric against his burned back forgotten the minute Mateo’s mouth is on him. Mateo keeps backing off as soon as Kent’s close, over and over till Kent’s practically crying. When he presses a crooked finger inside him, Kent’s whole body jerks. 

“Fuck, baby, you’re still wet,” Mateo says, and Kent feels the tip of one more finger slip in. He grips Mateo’s arms, the solid bulk of his muscle flexing as he pins down Kent’s hips and holds him steady, takes him deep and keeps him there till he comes. 

After, he lays his head on Kent’s thigh and looks up at him through his long eyelashes. “You come so pretty, baby, took my fingers so good. Not enough though, is it?”

Kent shakes his head. 

“You want my cock again? Want me to fill you up, fuck you so good you feel it tomorrow?”

God, Kent wishes this bullshit dirty talk didn’t do it for him. It’s stupid and horrible, and it gets him so hot, and Mateo knows it. 

He groans and gives up on trying to do anything but take what Mateo’s giving him, his beautiful mouth busy kissing and licking at the crease of Kent’s thigh, the softness giving way to the delicious sting of being marked, a deep purple bruise that will be hidden away from prying eyes in the locker room, unlike the teeth marks on his shoulder blade. 

Kent could give a fuck about the chirping he’ll get, especially when he lets go of Mateo’s arms and sees the red marks of his fingerprints, hopefully deep enough to leave something to remember him by.

Kent loves those arms, loves that they’re strong enough to pick him up and carry him inside to Mateo’s bed, loves the hands that pull shudders from him as they run over his chest, then slip under his back to gently roll him onto his stomach. Loves the fingers that entwine with his, gripping a pillow as Mateo moves inside him. 

He’s probably not going to be able to come again so soon, but it still feels amazing, the weight of Mateo pressing him into the bed, then the change in angle of his thrusts when he pulls Kent up so that he’s flush against him, back to chest, whispering nonsense in Kent’s ear.

They’re angled just right for Kent to watch himself get fucked in the big mirror next to the closet, all wild hair and sweat and his body rocking to meet Mateo’s over and over. 

The view and Mateo’s voice and the rising pleasure taking over Kent’s body is too much, and it’s so good, so he closes his eyes and tips his head back to rest on Mateo’s shoulder. He opens his mouth to speak, but he’s too far gone to do anything but moan. He wants to touch himself but then he’d have to stop touching Mateo, and he was wrong about not coming again, he’s close, but it’s not enough and -- 

Mateo knows his body, knows what he needs, moves faster and deeper, and it leaves Kent gasping for air. “Mmm,” Mateo murmurs, slipping one hand around to stroke Kent and using the other to gently tip his head forward. “Open your eyes and watch yourself, you look so fucking sexy.” The words vibrate in his ear. “Look how deep you’re taking me, how beautiful you look with my cock in you.”

Kent can’t, he just can’t, but he does for Mateo, he watches himself, open mouth and flushed face, eyes half closed, Mateo’s hand working over him. “One more time,” Mateo whispers, “you’ve been so good, come for me one more time.”

Kent does.

The bed is trashed and they’re both sticky and sweaty after, but even the lure of the rainforest shower head in the bathroom and fresh sheets isn’t enough motivation to move. Mateo’s laying with his head on Kent’s chest, Kent’s favorite, because he can play with his beautiful long hair, twirling it around his fingers, running his nails over Mateo’s scalp.

“Remember when we did it for the first time?” Mateo asks, his voice drowsy.

Kent tugs at Mateo’s hair, a soft reprimand. “You mean when we got super wasted on our second date and I took you home?”

He reaches up and gently pulls Kent’s hand away from his hair to move it to his chest, then cover it with his own. “And then I didn’t leave all weekend.”

Kent flicks his ear. “But you did eat all my pumpkin pie Pop Tarts before you left.”

Mateo turns to the side, blows a horribly wet raspberry on Kent’s stomach, then sits up. “Reconsider trying long distance?” 

Kent wipes the spit off his stomach and rubs it on Mateo’s shoulder. “If you put having kids back on the table,” Kent counters. He doesn’t know if Mateo is it for him, but he has a sneaking suspicion that with another few years he could be. He’d deal with a trans-Atlantic long distance relationship, except that he has always known he wants a family of rambunctious kids, enough to fill a house, and Mateo has always known he doesn’t. 

Mateo sighs. “Fuck. I’m going to miss you.”

“Me too,” Kent says ruefully. 

Eventually, they shower and remake the bed, dozing off wrapped up in each other. 

Kent wakes up restless, the sky still dark. He doesn’t check the time, just slips outside again after grabbing his camera bag and Mateo’s stash from the living room. 

He smokes and flicks through old photos, swapping out memory cards as he goes. There’s Mateo ice skating for the first time, a series of action shots, followed by a wipeout. Mateo surrounded by hockey bros during bye week in Cabo, brought along as Kent’s “cross-sports bromance” pal. The two of them in impeccable suits at an ESPN event. A photo snapped by a waiter in Medellin, Kent sitting at a table with Mateo’s extended family, thankful for the language barrier keeping him from embarrassing himself. And the oldest, from just under two years ago, at the party where they’d met. 

Kent zooms in. He’s definitely got glitter on one of his cheeks, Mateo’s not wearing a shirt, and they’re both drunk as shit. 

They had just met, and they already looked happy.

He’d left the door open, so he startles when Mateo sits beside him. He presses a kiss to Kent’s temple, then takes the joint from where it’s gone cold in Kent’s hand and relights it. They pass it back and forth, till Mateo takes the last hit and fits his mouth over Kent’s. This is his favorite part about smoking up, Mateo already having taken the heat of the smoke and replaced it with the soft warmth of his lips. He holds the smoke as long as he can before he exhales. 

The high hits him fast, it always does, and it doesn’t take long at all before he’s climbing in Mateo’s lap and tipping them both over. They make out for what feels like hours, kisses punctuated by giggles. The sun’s rising by the time they start yawning. 

“We should sleep out here,” Kent says. His lips are tender and his limbs are heavy, and he feels pretty great.

“Okay,” Mateo says, nuzzling Kent’s neck. They both like stoned sex, but Kent’s too sleepy to escalate things. They have all day and all night and most of tomorrow to be together, even if they’re technically broken up.

“Love you.” The words come out of Kent thickly.

“Love you, too,” Mateo says, rubbing his nose against Kent’s.

Kent scrunches his face. “Bunny kisses? That’s pretty gay, man.”

“Yeah, my bad. When we wake up, I want you to fuck me in the shower. No homo.”

“Sure,” Kent mumbles. “I’ll top. But like, as bros.”

Mateo yawns. “Just a bro, fucking a bro in the ass. Totally no homo.”

They manage to sleep till noon, and then Kent delivers on his promise. 

Far too soon the next day, they’re headed to LAX. “Where do you want to stop for lunch?” Mateo asks, merging across two lanes. “And if you say Chipotle I’ll --”

“What?” Kent interrupts. “Break up with me? Pretty hollow threat, man.”

Mateo just reaches over and squeezes his shoulder.

They end up at Sugarfish because as devoted as Kent is to all things guacamole, he’s going to miss those crab rolls. 

After lunch, as they find a spot by the drop off for departures, Mateo turns off the music and turns to look at Kent. “We’re gonna figure this out, right? How to be just friends?”

“Yeah,” Kent says, fighting back the urge to kiss him one last time. “We are.” He knows they will with a certainty he can’t explain, and it’s comforting to hold on to that as he walks away from the car and into the humming energy of check-in. 

It’s an easy flight and easy traffic in the cab back to his house in the Vegas suburbs. His cleaning service must have just come because it smells like lemongrass and the things on his coffee table are in the wrong spots. He nudges the remotes and magazines back into place and contemplates unpacking. 

He orders shitty Chinese food from his favorite place instead. 

A few hours later, he tries to get comfortable in the cool dark of his room, but the bed just feels wrong. He lays there for a while, the familiar sound of his white noise machine filling the room.

He misses Mateo.

The next day he drives to the Las Vegas Humane Society on a couple hours of sleep and a venti iced latte. The volunteer who shows him the cats, Sandra, clearly has him marked as a soft touch, and she’s not wrong. 

“I really thought I’d walk out of here with a kitten,” he says as he signs forms that promise he’ll give Jingles, currently yowling her head off in a carrier she barely fits in, a loving home. “How old is she?”

“She’s four. Maine coons are super cuddly, you know.”

Not quite the adjective Kent would apply. Jingles, who he is for sure renaming, had alternated between swiping at him and hiding under the bench in the playroom they’d been put in to get acquainted. He had been ready to ask to see a different cat, preferably a tiny and cute kitten, but then when Sandra finally came back, she’d looked at Jingles, still cowering, and sighed. 

“Her owners dropped her off when they moved overseas. She’s been pretty sad since then, and the stress of the shelter isn’t helping her lil personality shine.” She had paused and looked straight at Kent. “No potential adopter has gotten past the meet‘n greet. Real hard on the ones who keep getting passed over, you know.”

His glance had darted over to the pile of fur in the corner, eyes shining with fear. “Sandra, you know exactly what you’re doing, don’t you?”

“Yup. Let’s get the paperwork going.”

His new addition looks pretty angry and pretty pathetic through the air vents of the cardboard carrier sitting at his feet.

He already loves her. 

He crouches down and tries to get a better look at her. “Hey kitty, you ready to go home? You ready to be the love of my life?” 

She continues to wail.

He shrugs. “I’m gonna take that as a yes.”

When he gets home and sets her free, she immediately darts out and hides under the couch. He takes his time setting up her food and water and deciding he should probably keep the litter box nearby, for now. He may as well go to the gym and give her some time. As he walks to his room to change, he pauses in the hallway and assesses the wall to see where he can fit future cat photos among the dozens of frames of photos of family and friends, and hockey memorabilia. He decides on the middle left, directly under the display box of the hat trick pucks from his first NHL game.

* * * *

_**Las Vegas, October 2009** _

“Hey, do you have anything that is... uh, not beer or tequila?” His teammates have been slipping him drinks all night, and they’ve all tasted awful. “Like, maybe something with an umbrella?”

The bartender, who is stupidly good-looking, raises one perfectly groomed eyebrow. “Pretty sure you’re a little young for me to serve.”

“Oh my god, you can’t be serious.” Kent’s thoughts are swimming a little. He digs deep and tries to remember this guy’s name. John? Jake? No -- Jonas. That’s it. “J-dawg, you can’t be serious,” he repeats.”I’m like,” he stops and thinks, but his brain won’t corporate. “Uh, I’m older in Canada?”

Jonas breaks out into a grin. He has toothpaste commercial teeth and a perfect cupid’s bow to his lips. “I’m totally fucking with you man. Your boys’ tips pay my mortgage. Nice hat trick by the way.”

“Thanks! Hey, can I have some of those marshic -- mursh -- those really red cherries?”

Five minutes later, Kent weaves back to the roped off corner where the team is celebrating his record-breaking debut. “Look at this shit!” He proudly holds his cocktail up. It’s bright pink, and instead of an umbrella, has a little hockey stick stirrer. 

Tommy groans. “Aw fuck, who gave you a T-Mobile? Give that away to some chick and I’ll buy you a real drink.”

With great dignity, Kent sets his drink, and a bowl of maraschino cherries, on the table. “Be good to your rookie, dickhead.”

“First, declaring yourself my rookie is not legally binding,” Kent kicks at him from under the table, but misses and hits the metal leg. Ouch.

“Second, Tommy continues, “I’m trying to protect you. Those things are lethal.”

“Lethal and delicious.” Kent’s already halfway through his. “I’ll buy you one if you say I’m the best rookie.”

“Kiddo, you’re our only rookie. We share ownership. And, I make four times what you do.” Kent totally wins, though because Tommy’s already waving down a server. Six pink monstrosities arrive, with hockey stick stirrers _and_ little umbrellas, and if he’d thought his night couldn’t get better after a hatty in his first NHL game, he was wrong. 

This, this is the zenith of his career.

He announces as much to the table.

“You got 81 more games, bro,” Tommy says. “Don’t blow your load all at once.”

“Ew.”

Eventually Tommy leaves to get home to his kids and wife, and Kent switches to water. The younger boys are starting to call it a night, but Davey still seems to be going strong as he sits next to Kent and throws his arm around him.

“My man,” he says, pausing to chug the rest of his beer. “One of the ice girls is crying at the bar, all sad and shit. You should totally go hit that. Follow up your goddamn hatty with getting your dick wet.”

“That’s not -- “ 

“Use a condom. She’s fucked, like, half the team. Total slut, but I hear she gives amazing head.”

Soberness kind of clicks into place as Davey manhandles him to the bar and shoves him onto a stool next to a very pretty, very sad blonde woman. “Alexis, Kent. Kent, Alexis. I’ll let you two get acquainted.” He winks before he leaves.

“Uh,” Kent says. “Are you okay?”

Alexis moves from staring at her phone to staring at him. Her eyes are red and her makeup is a smeary mess. “Do I look like I’m okay?” she says, slurring so heavily Kent winces.

“Not really. I’m not -- I’m not sure what to do?” 

She dabs at her face with a cocktail napkin. “Let’s do shots. I’m going to the bathroom. You order.” 

More alcohol seems like a terrible idea, but Kent’s at a loss, here. He takes in the excellent, excellent view of Jonas’s ass while he’s bent over doing something under the bar, then waves him over when he stands up. 

Jonas takes in the empty seat and the pile of crumpled napkins. “Let me guess, Lexi wants shots?”

“How’d you know?” Kent asks. 

He sets down two shot glasses filled with something murky looking. “She does this every time she gets dumped. These are just juice. Wanna pay her tab?”

“Sure?” 

He’s not totally sure how he ends up tasked with trying to wrestle Alexis into a cab shortly after he pays off her bill, but he does, and she’s not cooperating. “Please work with me,” he begs. “Just tell the nice driver where you live.”

“I live with my boyfriend,” she hiccups. “But he doesn’t want me anymore.”

“That is...not helpful. Do you have any friends you could -- oh no, no no no.”

“I think your friend pass out,” the driver says helpfully. 

“The gods are punishing me for flying too high my first game,” Kent mumbles.

He gives the driver his address.

* * * * 

“I’ll kill him,” booms down the hall. Kent opens one eye from where he’s buried in nest of blankets on the floor. His bed is empty, his hangover is surprisingly mild, and he’s pretty sure he’s about to get eviscerated by William Nilsson, the Aces’ captain, whom Kent will be living with for the foreseeable future, which may have just gotten a lot shorter. 

Nilsson, who lead the league in penalties for fighting last season, and whose one rule for Kent was to not bring home overnight guests because he didn’t want strangers in his house with his kids, or Kent setting a bad example.

In the time it takes Kent to splash water on his face and slink down the hall to the kitchen, things get a lot quieter. He pokes his head around the corner. 

Alexis is sitting at the breakfast bar with a giant cup of coffee in front of her. She looks a little green around the edges and still red around the eyes, but it’s not stopping her from cutting up a pancake for Maja, whose precious little 4-year old face lights up when she spots him. 

“Kent,” she bellows, a girl who already takes after her father. “Lexi made pancakes!”

“Good morning,” Kent says. His voice goes a little higher than he wants it to. He glances at Nils, who is still glowering. “I could definitely go for pancakes, I guess. And maybe coffee?”

“Coffee after talking,” Nils says, grabbing Kent by the arm and marching him back to his room. He stands at the doorway silently and looks over the mess of blankets in front of the closet, clearly slept in, and the smears of mascara on both pillows. There’s a glass of water on one of the nightstands, and another on the floor by the computer desk, in arm’s reach of where Kent slept.

Nils turns to him. “I had one rule.”

“I know, and I’m really sorry, but she was so out of it and there were guys, like, watching her, and -- ”

“You’re a good kid, Parson.” Kent’s sure he heard wrong, but Nils just keeps going. “Lexi told me you were a gentleman, got her home safe, didn’t touch her.” 

Kent’s not sure why, but he blurts out, “I have two sisters.”

“Yeah, lots of guys have sisters. And yet.” Nils throws his arm around Kent’s shoulder, way more in dad-mode than ‘about to murder Kent’ mode. “C’mon, let’s get you some coffee.”

Kent must be missing something. “I’m really sorry I broke the rule, and I won’t do it again, and honestly I’m kind of confused -- ”

“You fucked up in the best possible way. Lexi used to babysit for us. Next time, put her in the bedroom at the end of the hall. That’s where she usually sleeps.”

The pancakes are shaped like Mickey Mouse and have chocolate chips in them. Maja ends up in his lap to steal his strawberries. He listens to Alexis and Nils chat about her classes and her schedule while Maja reads him a book. Her made up story is so much better than the words she can’t yet read, and when he kisses her on the head after her triumphant announcement that everyone lived happily ever after, he swears he catches Nils smiling out of the corner of his eye.

He misses Jan and Tim and Maddie so much that he cried about it his first night here, his room too big and too quiet. Nils and his wife and daughters will never be the Olsens, but for the first time in his month of living with them, he thinks they might be a different kind of good thing. 

After practice, he meets his parents for lunch before they fly back to Buffalo. His father is beaming, recounting the game highlights better than Sports Center did. 

He promises them both hats to replace the ones they threw and asks about how the JV football game Kristen had to cheer at went. 

His dad carries the conversation, a departure from the family norm. It’s not like he and his mom aren’t talking or anything, but their usual easy chatter hasn’t returned. 

Kent wonders if it ever will. His mom had told him, in a stilted phone call a week into what she calls his “North Carolina vacation,” that she’d decided not to tell his father about “the Jack situation,” since Jack was clearly going to be far too busy getting his life in order to have time for Kent. 

He doesn’t remember the specifics after that. He remembers James taking away the phone from him, and he remembers their conversation at a diner after Kent had blown up at him, shame and sadness heavy over him as he apologized. 

James had set down his coffee cup when Kent was done. “Thank you for the apology. I don’t know why you’re here, but I think it’s a safe assumption that some shit went down.”

Kent had nodded, and James continued. “I can appreciate being in a hard place. Been there myself. But you cannot speak to me like you did today, and if it happens again, you will need to leave my house.”

“Ok.” Kent had willed himself not to shake. 

“You wanna talk about it?”

He did, desperately. Instead, though, he’d said, “You ever wonder just how many shitty things can possibly happen at the same time, and then find out that you weren’t even close to the max?”

James had nodded, paid the bill, and stopped for ice cream on the way home. 

The restaurant he’s at with his parents now is far fancier than that diner in North Carolina, but his father insists on paying the check, in spite of the fact that Kent is now legit rich. They say their goodbyes, and his mother hands him a bundle of mail. “These came before the change of address kicked in.”

“Oh,” Kent says. “Any postcards in there?”

“Yes, your friends certainly travel a lot.” She straightens his collar, and then she and his dad are in their rental car and on their way. 

When he gets home, he spreads everything on his bed, ignoring the letters. He pins the postcards to the bulletin board he hung up a few weeks ago. They crowd into the others, a vicarious trip around the world. The major cities in Europe are all there, then a jump to South East Asia. The new ones are from Australia and New Zealand.

The photos on the front vary wildly, from buildings to landscapes to the kangaroo and kiwi birds of today’s delivery. The back sides are all identical, absent of greeting or news, just his Buffalo address on the right and a signature on the left. It’s a name he’s seen scribbled onto thousands of jerseys and t-shirts and pucks and photos, a signature that he used to sign his own under, the top of his ‘K’ bumping into the tail of Jack’s practically illegible ‘Z’ and the scrawl that followed it.

The ZImmermann’s post-rehab world tour continues.

Kent wonders how long it takes mail to get from New Zealand to the US, wonders where Jack is now.

A few days later, he hangs up the shadow box holding the pucks from his first game on the opposite side of the room. He taps the frame to straighten it out, then texts Alexis.

They meet after practice for coffee. Kent orders a drink that’s closer to a liquid candy bar than a latte, and they settle into a pair of oversized chairs. 

“Just gonna put this out there,” she says after the barista drops off their drinks. “I don’t need a boyfriend right now, but I could really use a friend. I -- why are you laughing?”

“I’ll tell you later,” Kent says when he recovers. “Friends sounds really good. Want some chocolate cake? I totally want cake.”

“Yeah, but I’m not sharing. Get two.”

They power through their slices and split a scone and a cinnamon roll, too. When she drops him off later he gets permission to call her Lexi and a kiss on the cheek. 

He walks into the house feeling lighter than he has since his plane touched down a month ago. 

The day ends with video games at The Fortress, an apartment their goalie and third line D-men share. Kent manages two respectable melees followed by a sound ass kicking. He passes off his controller and goes in search of pizza from the kitchen. 

Davey trails him in. “Yo Parser, you wrap that shit up last night?” he asks as he lifts his hand for a high five. 

“Huh?” Kent peeks in another of the many pizza boxes taking up the counter space. Looks like he’s stuck with plain cheese.

“Alexis? From the bar? Pretty, sad, drunk? Don’t leave me hanging here.” He points at his still raised hand.

“High five denied. Got her home, which is what you do when someone’s that drunk, c’mon man. She’s a cool girl. Think we’re gonna be friends.”

Davey lowers his hand and rolls his eyes. “Whatever, she’s not even that hot.”

Lexi had told him earlier that day that Davey’s been trying to hook up with her since he was drafted, despite her repeated explanation that she only considers sleeping with players who have 100 point seasons, which excludes not only David Pearson, but literally every Las Vegas Aces player, ever.

Kent would be lying if he said he hadn’t fallen more than a little in love with her just for that.

As Davey walks out of the kitchen he calls over his shoulder, “See if I ever try and send you some tail again.”

“Please don’t,” Kent whispers.

When he returns to the couch with his slice, Gooch is in his seat, so he smacks him in the head and settles for a spot on the floor. He watches the game for a bit, the solid weight of Gooch’s leg against his side grounding and comfortable. 

More guys arrive, and soon the apartment is packed, everyone vying for space on or near the massive couch. Baller has been whining about wanting to play for a solid five minutes, so Kent gives him his controller and his spot on the floor and heads to the bathroom. 

The bathroom has no soap, no bathmat, and a pile of towels on the floor. Kent washes his hands with shampoo and dries them on his jeans. He’s sure that somewhere in Quebec, a full body shudder just ran through Jan. 

Before he gets back to the living room, he pauses at the end of the hallway to watch the chaos of a dozen hockey boys having fun. Most of the second and third lines and almost all of their defense is here, big bodies and big egos shoved together and fighting about whose turn it is to play and who should make a beer run between giving Baller shit about his spectacularly failed pick up attempt the night before. 

Kent startles a bit as Joey, their back up goalie, claps him on the shoulder. “FYI brah, any time you get claustrophobic at Nils’ place, come over.”

“Thanks for the invite, but you don’t even live here.” Joey and his girlfriend live across town in a gorgeous condo. They had Kent over for dinner his first week in Vegas. 

Joey shrugs. “It’s the team clubhouse. No chicks and no married guys allowed on hangout nights.”

“Got it,” Kent says. He follows Joey back to the living room and wedges himself onto the couch. He steals someone’s beer but doesn’t get to drink much of it before someone swaps it out for a controller. He puts on his game face as Gooch yells in his ear about doing him proud. 

He drives home in the Nilssons’ spare car and idles in the driveway for a bit and he looks at the massive house. His room is on the left side, with green curtains showing through the window. Greta Nilsson had helped him pick them out his second day in Vegas when he’d begged her, four hours into a Target and Bed, Bath, and Beyond trip to get his room set up, to put him out of his misery and tell him which curtains matched the bed in a bag already in the cart.

Thanks to her, his room looks pretty good, and he likes spending time there. All the furniture matches, but like, not too much? His en suite bathroom has the fluffiest towels he’s ever felt in his life, and the tub is big enough for him to soak in. 

Sure, he sleeps with the door cracked so he can hear the sounds of the house, of Nils and Greta shuffling down the hall when the baby cries, or of Maja trying to sneak into the playroom when she should be sleeping.

And maybe he sometimes wakes up and it takes him a minute to realize that he’s still listening for absent snoring, or reaching to reclaim blankets wrapped around no one, but, you know. Stuff changes. 

He’ll get used to sleeping alone eventually. 

He scans the rest of the exterior of the house, lingering on the dark windows of the kids’ bedrooms, where Maja, Julia, and Liss are, hopefully, sound asleep. The family room faces the back, but he knows Nils and Greta are there, asleep on the couch while a movie plays. 

He joins them when he goes inside and thinks he settled into his favorite chair quietly enough to not disturb them, but a rustle of blankets tell him otherwise.

“Hey,” Nils says softly. “Good night with the boys?”

“Yeah,” Kent answers. “It really was.”

His phone buzzes with texts the rest of the evening, and just before he gets in bed he looks at the screen one last time and scrolls through his texts, past the group texts and the names of his new team, past the messages from Remmy and Kristen, from Tim and Jan, till he reaches what he’s looking for, a text from late August.

_Zimms: Yeah, as soon as I’m back. Maybe a couple months?_

Kent looks at the calendar hanging over his desk and crosses off another day. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Are we all a little in love with Mateo? I sure am.
> 
> FYI, a T-mobile cocktail is basically a cosmo. Kent is the most basic bitch in the world. 
> 
> Shout out to summerfrost for the ongoing beta work and handholding. 
> 
> Thanks for reading! xoxoxoxo for real. I am always down to chat about this fic and my choices with the characterization, plot, etc.


	2. Chapter 2

**Early October, 2014**

“Motherfucker.” Kent pulls back his hand and inspects the fresh scratch across his thumb as Kit relocates to the top of his bookshelf. “You have to be nice to daddy.”

“Maybe she’s mad about her name change.” Mateo’s half dozing off on Skype, hours ahead of Kent in London and jet-lagged after an away game.

Kent manages to flip him off while still applying pressure to his wound. “Kit loves her name. Just because you don’t recognize genius when you hear it --”

“I’m still mad you took this long to tell me you got a cat,” Mateo says as he shifts in his bed, the cover slipping down. 

After a few seconds lost to staring at his chest, Kent sighs. “She sleeps under the couch, and It’s been a month and she still won’t let me pet her. I think she hates me.”

“She doesn’t hate you, she just doesn’t know you,” Mateo manages around a yawn. “I think I gotta go, babe.” There’s just enough light in Mateo’s room for Kent to see him wince. “Shit. Don’t say it— ”

“Rule three of the breakup contract is no pet names. You owe me $5.”

“You call your goalie babe,” Mateo mumbles. 

“Maybe I’m wooing him. Maybe I find bald dudes with no front teeth who are a decade older than me unbearably hot. Or maybe it’s his hockey --”

“Bullshit, his stats slid the second half of last season, and there are rumors that your backup is about to get promoted to starting.”

“I regret teaching you about hockey.” Kent watches Mateo yawn again. “Please go to sleep. I’ll call you again next week.”

“Yeah, no, let’s make it two.”

“Really? We’ve only talked twice since you moved, and already you’re --”

“You know we agreed on this. If one of us needs space.” The image on screen jumps as Mateo leans over to put his glasses on the nightstand and turn out the light. “You’re hard to get over, babe. Oh, goddammit.”

He disconnects.

“Ten dollars,” Kent says softly. He locks his phone and wanders into his closet to check out his suits. Tonight’s a team banquet with the organization’s bigwigs -- cocktail hour, passed hors-d'oeuvres, the whole nine yards. It’s gonna be a sea of middle-aged men in blue and black and gray, so those colors are out, and he wants to wear his new Cartier watch, because fuck Jeff for saying rose gold was a stupid choice, and maybe the Hermes belt he picked up a couple months ago, and if he does that, he can probably get away with -- 

Fuck it. He’s Kent Parson. He picks up his phone and dials a number by memory. “Hi, Rafa. You remember those cufflinks I was looking at -- yeah, last week. Uh huh, you know me so well, my man. Can the courier get it here by -- perfecto. My love to the fam. Ciao, ciao.”

When he walks into the banquet later, Jeff sidles up to him with a plate piled with jumbo shrimp. Kent raises his arm and pushes back his sleeve. “Look at that, It’s 7:51.”

“Goddammit,” Jeff says. “Chrissy was right. You’re taking me with you the next time you go suit shopping.”

“Your wife is smarter than you, brah.”

Jeff shrugs. “You know that’s true. I know that’s true. She knows it’s true.”

“So, the suit looks good,” he smooths his sleeve back down, making sure his cufflinks are seated properly in the Cabernet colored fabric, then adjusting the collar on his paisley shirt. “And?”

“The fucking pink watch was a good decision,” Jeff grits out.

“You bet your ass it was.” Kent finger-guns at a camera, then steals a shrimp off Jeff’s plate.

“No,” Jeff says, smacking his hand. “I bet you $100 that it wasn’t, and I’ll pay up tomorrow. Leave my shrimp and my ass alone.”

“Aww, babe, what’s happening to our bromance? If I can’t goose your ass, whose can I?”

“I’m gonna put Icy-Hot in your jock,” Jeff hisses as a group of wives walk by. 

A few minutes later they’re posing for pictures, arms around each other’s shoulders. Kent turns his wrist so that his watch is clearly visible. “Parson,” the photographer says. “Troy’s been your A for four years now. What’s the secret to your on-ice chemistry?”

“Oh, that’s easy,” Kent says. “Our deep mutual respect and admiration for each other.”

“Totally,” Jeff chimes in. 

Later at dinner, he only kicks Kent under the table three times.

Parson 1, Troy 0.

* * * *

**Late November, 2009**

“Motherfucker,” Kent whispers as milk drips off the table and onto his sweats and the ugly patterned hotel carpet.

“Jesus, you’ve been jumpy this whole trip.” Dillsy says as he throws some napkins at Kent.

He’s not wrong, but Kent figures he deserves some slack. The Aces roadie across the far north reaches of the NHL’s domain has been a total shit show, last night’s game against Edmonton in particular. He’s on a point streak, but the team has been losing since before they left Vegas, their PK is a joke, and as much as he likes their backup goalie, he’d be super happy not to see him come on as relief in the first goddamn period like he did last night. 

Plus, last time he was in Ottawa, he lost at World Juniors.

At least this trip bypasses Montreal and Buffalo. Kent can make it through Detroit and Chicago. 

Probably.

Practice is strained, his new line combo struggling to get it together. He can already imagine the headlines in the sports section tomorrow. Recent gems have included, “Vegas Golden Boy Weighed Down by Offense,” or “Vegas not Living Up to Promise of Parson.” 

“Hey,” Macky says, as he bumps Kent’s shoulder while they’re cooling down. “If you glare at that stick any harder it’s gonna snap.”

“Huh? Oh.” Mustering a smile isn’t happening, but he makes an effort. “Too much in my head, ya know?”

Macky nods. “Hard to go from the top of Juniors to bottom of the league. Wanna hear a rumor?”

That’s enough to perk Kent up. “Absolutely.”

“Think we’re getting Troy.”

“Holy shit. I was expecting you to tell me Davey finally found a girl with low enough standards to date him or something. Are you serious? We’re getting Troy?”

Macky claps him on the shoulder. “It’s a rumor, Parser.”

“But, if we did --”

“Yeah.”

He keeps his lips sealed, but rumors travel fast, and when the boys walk into the arena that night, the mood is a 180 from earlier in the day.

They manage a win. A sloppy, dirty, mess of a win, but two precious points that will lift them up from the very bottom of their division. Dinner feels more like family than it has in a while, and Kent heads up to his room, happy to have it to himself for one night while local boy Matts stays with his sister. He luxuriates in the shower and is debating if he can make a vending machine run while wearing a robe when there’s a knock at the door.

He opens it and freezes.

“Hi,” Jack says.

Kent stares, then blurts out, “Do you want anything from the vending machine?”

“What?” Jack says, and in lieu of an answer, Kent drags him inside and slams the door shut, and Jack reaches out and pulls Kent to him, his denim jacket rough against Kent’s face.

“How are you here?” Kent asks. Jack’s hand is warm on his neck.

“I was in Toronto. Drove over.”

Kent pulls back and looks at him. His hair is cut short and his cheeks are red from the chilly night air, and he’s solid and real and here.

Kent grabs Jack’s hand. “C’mon,” he says and leads them to the bed. Jack kicks off his shoes and tosses his jacket aside, then gracelessly moves to lay next to Kent. 

Jack’s face is so close to his own that his features blur. He smells exactly the same, and Kent wants to laugh and wants to cry, but instead, he says, “I missed you.” The words carry so little of the ache Kent’s carried with him for months, but they’re the best he can do.

Jack shivers as Kent slides his hands up under his hoodie then around to his back so he can run his fingers up and down his spine. “You don’t have to miss me. I’m right here.”

“Why didn’t you call me?”

He feels Jack shrug. “Didn’t know what to say.”

“Didn’t —“ The anger blooms fast, sharp as a high stick to the face. “I’m your best fucking friend,” Kent hisses, “and you couldn’t pick up a goddamn phone in Malaysia or wherever the fuck you were?”

Jack runs his thumb over Kent’s cheek. “Do you know how many people I’ve had to talk to lately?”

“No, Jack. I don’t.” Kent struggles to keep his voice steady. “But apparently I don’t rank high enough to be one of them. Go to hell.”

Jack makes a sound low in his throat. “Already been to rehab. Is that close enough for you?”

It’s less a decision and more a reflex to swallow his rage and kiss him. 

It’s easy, really. Kent would give up a lot more than rage to keep Jack here in his bed, wrapped around him, an unexpected homecoming so far from the mapped territory they share. 

Kent sits up and slides his robe off, letting it pool around his hips. “I just -- closer?” he pleads, but Jack’s already taking off his hoodie and shirt. Kent helps him with the rest, Jack tosses the robe onto the floor, and then they press together again, warm skin against warm skin, and Kent can breathe for the first time since June. 

“You’re bigger,” Jack says, running his hands over the muscle of Kent’s arms.

His hands are so warm. “Like it?”

“Different.” 

Jack’s changed too, a softness to his stomach and face that reminds Kent of when they first met in Rimouski. 

He slides down so that his head is on Jack’s shoulder. “Different,” he agrees. 

They fall asleep like that. Kent wakes up once in the night to Jack softly snoring in his sleep, and for a second he thinks they’re back in the basement in Rimouski, the world at their feet and the future a question mark that’s more exciting than scary.

He lets Jack’s breathing lull him back to sleep, and when he wakes up again Jack is spooning him, solid and perfect against his back, moving just enough that Kent knows he’s awake.

Kent takes a deep breath as Jack’s arms circle his waist. “I keep trying to hate you,” Kent says as he stares at the curtained window. 

“Don’t.” Jack’s breath is warm against the back of his neck. “I thought about you.”

Kent turns in Jack’s arms to face him. “Don’t believe you.”

“I sent you 18 postcards.”

“Liar.” 

“You didn’t get them?” Jack asks, voice rising in concern. 

“I only got 17,” Kent says. He runs his hand down Jack’s back to his ass, then around his hip. He stops at the crease of Jack’s thigh. “What do you want?”

“For it to be June again.”

Kent moves his hand forward and Jack lets out a shuddering sigh. 

They doze again after, and Kent wakes up when the mattress dips. Jack’s up and pulling his clothes on. “I should leave before people start to wake up.”

“Yeah,” Kent says. “Or maybe don’t?”

“Kenny, I can’t --”

“I know.” And Kent does know, really, that Jack has to go, and he’s going to be left here alone to sort out all his hurt and his joy at having had Jack back for even a night.

It sucks. 

“This is really hard,” Kent says, as Jack ties his shoes. 

“I know.” He slips into his jacket. “Trust me, I know.”

Then he’s out the door. 

When Kent gets back to Vegas, a postcard from Montreal is waiting for him. He folds it so it fits in his wallet.

The Aces have a light week, and Kent spends the time he’s not at the rink shut in his room, ignoring Greta and Nils’s knocks at the door. His next off day he sleeps late enough that he should have the house to himself when he finally gets out of bed to find some breakfast. 

He miscalculated. Greta’s in the kitchen, doing something on her laptop and drinking tea. 

Kent says good morning then surveys the pantry cabinet and curses. 

“Language,” Greta hisses, even though none of the kids are in the kitchen. 

“Nils ate the last of the corn flakes,” Kent grumbles.

Greta comes over and ruffles his hair. “Wanna hit the kids’ cereal stash?”

“I’ll just have yogurt.”

“Ok, kiddo, what’s up? You’ve been a real dick since the team got back, and you’re turning down Fruity Pebbles. Spill.”

“Language,” Kent says. Before he can stalk off to his room, Greta grabs his collar. 

“Nope. Eat your yogurt and then we’re going out.”

An hour later Kent’s staring at a bewildering array of fabric swatches as an old man runs measuring tape over him and mutters to himself in Italian. 

“Greta, help,” Kent pleads.”Can we just go to Brooks Brothers or something?”

“Honey,” Greta says, handing him a dark green tie, “whatever you have going on, you gotta deal, cause it’s the thick of the season now.”

“I am aware,” Kent says through gritted teeth. “You think I don’t read the shitty press about our shitty, practically last place team?”

Greta levels him with a look of displeasure Kent knows well from his own mother. “Suck it up, princess, cause trades are gonna start flying and it’s just gonna get worse.” 

“Why did you make me come here?” Kent says as the tailor pushes his arms down. He’s tired. “You could have just murdered me at home.”

The tailor leans over to Greta and says something in Italian. She laughs and pays him on the shoulder. “Yeah, dramatic is one word for it. Look,” she says, turning to face Kent, ”you don’t have to tell me what’s going on with you, but it’s easier to smile through all the bullshit life throws at you when you’re wearing armor.” She leans in and smooths down his cowlick, same as his mom has done a million times. “Fake it till you make it, sweetheart.”

“I already made it,” Kent grumbles. 

“True, and you better live up to your performance bonuses cause once you go bespoke, you’re not going to be able to go back.” She waves the tailor away and steps onto the dias behind Kent, taking the tie from him so she can loop it around his neck then peer at him. “Wow, that’s good with your eyes.”

He faces the three-panel mirror where an infinite line of himself stares back at him. 

A month later, Christmas bracketed by away games against the Canes and the Panthers, and New Year’s Day booked with OT versus the Capitals, the Aces have clawed their way to a wildcard spot. Kent’s stats are in the league’s top ten and still rising, and the arena seats are filling up more each game. 

They’re playing the Kings, who shut them out the last time they played. Kent takes on the press wearing a perfectly cut suit in a French blue windowpane. 

“Kent,” a reporter asks, “in the month since Jeff Troy was traded to you, your line has been unstoppable, and attendance has gone up by almost 20% at home games. Are you surprised by this turnaround?”

“Not at all.” Kent runs a hand down his chest, making sure his new silver tie bar is straight. There’s a slight rise to the ace of spades engraving on it that matches his cufflinks. 

“You sound pretty confident considering a month ago you were bottom of the league.”

“What can I say,” Kent pauses and winks at the camera, “except that in Vegas, the house always wins.”

They beat LA by two points, and on the way home, Nils lets Kent play his pump up playlist, though not as loud as Kent would like. 

“The house always wins,” Jeff says in a deep voice from the back seat.

“Nah,” Nils says. “Kent’s voice is higher.”

“The house always wins,” Jeff tries again in falsetto. 

“Hah!” Nils punches Kent in the shoulder. “Sounds just like you. Jeff, say it like Zbrovsky would.”

“Ze house always vin.” Jeff says, nailing the accent. 

“Yuck it up, boys,” Kent says. “Being the face of the franchise —“

Nils and Jeff groan in unison. 

“ — I said, being the face of the franchise, it’s up to me to come up with dope catchphrases.”

“You didn’t invent that one,” Jeff says. 

“I invented it in my heart.”

“Sure, sure.”

They drop of Jeff, and swing by the grocery store to pick up a few things for Greta. In the produce aisle, Kent bags up some avocados and glances at Nils, who is contemplating the tomato selection. 

“Hey, Nils?” 

Nils picks up a tomato and frowns at it. “Yeah, kiddo?”

“You and the team know all this face of the franchise crap is bullshit, right?”

Nils bags the tomato and puts his hand on Kent’s shoulder. “The boys may be collectively dumb as a bag of rocks, but you wear your heart on your sleeve and we all can see it.”

“Okay?”

“We know you put team first is what I’m saying.”

“Good.”

The get home and Kent wishes he could call Kristen, but it’s about two in the morning in Buffalo. He misses her, but she and Robbie and James are coming for MLK weekend, and he can make it till then 

He texts her instead, and is about to put down the phone when a call comes in. 

It’s a 514 area code. 

He hesitates but picks up. “Jack?”

“Happy belated New Year.”Jack’s voice is soft and low, and it sends Kent tumbling back in time to Rimouski and their shared basement bed. “Kenny? Are you there?”

“Yeah,” Kent says, “sorry, just surprised. Are you in Montreal? It’s the middle of the night.”

“Yeah, can’t sleep. Talk to me?”

“Did you watch the game tonight — 

“Not hockey,” Jack says sharply.

“Oh.” Silence stretches out, Kent at a loss for words, and Jack not offering any sort of branch to cover the chasm a ban on hockey carves between them.

Jack lets out a long sigh. “Sorry, this was a bad idea. I should go.“

“No, wait, gimme a sec.” Kent searches his mind frantically, looking for anything to offer up, and landing on what he hopes is still common ground. “So, Kristen is dating Remmy —“

“You’re joking.” 

“No.”

“Really? Remmy?” Jack asks, and Kent could make a home in the lilt in his voice. 

“Yeah, they’re like, obsessed. It was really awful, they both just went stupid over each other.”

“He could barely open his mouth around her when she came to Rimouski last year. When did they even see each other?” 

“Uh --,” Kent hedges. “He got bored or something and came down to chill.”

“Huh,” Jack says.

“Yeah, our son is growing up. And apparently macking on my sister, which I am trying not to think about.”

“Hmmm. What else?”

“Turns out I’m really bad at poker.” If they’re going to ignore the elephant in the room, so be it. “So one night, I’m at the Bellagio…”

When he glances at his phone a little later, Kent sees that he’s been taking for a good twenty minutes. He wraps up his story. “Sorry, been talking about myself a lot. How are you?”

“I’m okay. Sleepy now.”

“Yeah, me too, but -- ”

“I should probably go to bed -- “

“Wait,” Kent says. “Just, stay up a little more? I didn’t get to -- we didn’t talk much when you came to Ottawa.”

“Yeah, sorry about that,” Jack says, and Kent’s mind swirls with possibilities for what “that” means. Seeing him? Sleeping together? Leaving Kent so alone that it sometimes feels like dying?

“I gotta go now,” Jack says, interrupting Kent’s thoughts. “It’s late. Goodnight.” The call cuts off and Kent flips to text.

_goodnight??????_

It gets no response. He waits five minutes, types _tell me what i did???,_ deletes it, and settles for sending _jack??????_

He wakes up to zero texts, and there’s still nothing by his noon training session. He wants to scream. Instead, the next day at the gym, he gets a trainer to box with him. The smack of the blocker against Kent’s glove feels so good, he keeps going till he’s about to fall over. 

“Okay, okay,” the trainer says. “I give. You pissed about something, Parser?”

“You could say that,” Kent mumbles as he throws his gloves on the floor. 

He calls Lexi from the locker room. “We’re going out tonight. You’re DD.”

“Hi, Parse, good to hear from you, my holidays were great, thanks for asking.” He can hear the clinking sounds of a cafe in the background. 

“Please, I just —“ he takes a second to duck into the equipment room, “I really need a friend.”

“Okay, sorry, got it,” Lexi says. “I’ll pick you up at eight.”

They go back to the club where they met after Kent waves away Lexi’s protests about the price of drinks. Tragically, Jonas and his fine, fine ass aren’t behind the bar, but the woman who is pouring his drinks has a heavy hand. 

When his third glass arrives, Lexi puts her hand on his before he can lift it. “What’s going on?”

“Stuff.” He grabs the skewer and eats the cherries off it.

“Uh huh, and what stuff requires getting drunk on a Tuesday? These are totally doubles, you take that third one and you’re gonna be a mess at practice tomorrow.”

“Opti -- no, wait. Fuck. Optional skate!” Kent pats himself on the shoulder. “It’s optional. I’ll just chill and like, play hacky sack with Bensy or something. It’ll be cool. Totally cool. No one will know.” He looks down at his drink. “Hey Lexi, can I borrow a hacky sack?”

“Kent,” Lexi starts.

“You never call me that.” He leans over and tries to steal the cherry out of her drink, but she scoots it away too fast. “Mean. I’m very sad, Alexis. You should give me your garmnish.”

“My garmnish? Is that anything like a garnish?” And does your garnish stealing ass want to tell me what's up?

He sticks his tongue out at her and downs half his cherry-less drink. The first two are definitely doing their job, and what he means to say next is, “I don’t want to talk about it,” but what comes out is, “You ever have something that’s so good, like, just. The best? But, it’s the worse thing, too, cause it was supposed to happen the right way and it didn’t, and now it’s like, just all fucked up and Vegas is like, a million miles away and it just...sucks.”

Lexi nods. “Gonna hazard a guess -- girlfriend problems?”

Kent laughs. “I don’t have a girlfriend.”

“Oh,” Lexi pats his thigh. “Breakups suck.”

“Don’t fucking say that!” He starts to shred his napkin. “You can’t say that, why would -- it’s not a breakup, he -- “ Kent clears his throat as quickly as he can, “she can’t just leave me.”

Kent’s stomach clenches as Lexi takes a slow sip of her drink. “So, sounds like your ex didn’t give you much closure.”

“Uh --” Kent settles on the easiest answer. “No.”

“Uh huh.” Lexi signals for another. When it arrives he just stares at it. “Yeah,” Lexi says. “Love’s a bitch. Drink up.”

He does, and as they wait for the check Kent wonders how badly he’s going to regret this entire night tomorrow. “C’mon, slugger,” Lexi says as she tucks her credit card back into her purse after Kent snipes the bill. “I’m taking you home, and then tomorrow you’re going to go to the Fortress with the D-bros after morning skate and playing dumbass video games and eating whatever delivery those idiots live off of. And you’re going to seriously think about how there is a function on your phone that allows you to handily block numbers of ex’s.”

“Okay,” Kent says as he slides off his stool. “I’ll go hang with the D-bros, but their house smells weird.”

“I'm sure,” Lexi says. “You heard the second part?” 

“Can we go to McDonald’s?“

Lexi hugs him. “Issue avoidance fries?”

“No,” Kent says. “Imma get a McFlurry.”

“Sure you are.” Lexi steers him out the door.

The morning’s rough, but knowing there’s a game tomorrow helps, and by the time he leaves the boys’ apartment the next night he does feel better, full of Thai food and riding on the high of completely annihilating Gooch at Call of Duty.

Kent Parson, a born winner.

* * * *

“Hey, man, you don’t have to always talk to your girl in the bathroom.” Jeff’s digging through his duffle bag, which after rooming together for the past month, Kent knows is full of identical pairs of basketball shorts and horrible t-shirts with the sleeves cut off. 

“Pick up your towel, you barbarian, and also, what?”

“You know, like once a week or something you get a phone call and hide in the bathroom with the shower on. I can peace out to Eddie’s room and chill while you --" he makes air quotes " -- talk. Just don’t nut in my bed, alright?”

“Thanks,” Kent says dryly. “Not that it’s your business.”

“Nah, man, but I know long distance sucks. Broke up me and my ex. You might wanna think about calling your girl more. And it’s almost Valentines, I bet Nils could tell you a good florist, smooth things over a little.”

“Yeah,” Kent sighs. “Solid advice.”

Jeff thwacks him on the shoulder and heads into the bathroom. Kent looks down at his phone’s call log. Five incoming calls from Zimms over the past month and a half, and probably two dozen unanswered outgoing calls. He’s not going to even bother looking at the strings of texts he’s sent to the abyss of Jack’s phone. 

Two nights later, Kent’s icing a fat lip from a high stick that made him lose the puck on what could have been a game-winning shot. “Jesus,” Jeff says when Kent lifts the ice pack. “Is it just me or are the goons gunning for you?”

Kent groans. “Every time we move up, I get a fresh target on my ass.”

“You’re lucky that didn’t take out a tooth. Not that I’d mind being the pretty one on the team.” Jeff bats his eyes at Kent.

Kent runs his tongue over his teeth, taking count just in case, then sticks his tongue out at Jeff. “You do just fine wheeling chicks with that mug.”

“Sure do. In fact, Eddie and I are going out tonight. Wanna come with?”

Kent eyes his phone where it’s charging on the nightstand. 

“Ugh,” Jeff rolls his eyes. “She hasn’t called in how long?”

“Dunno. Not counting,” Kent lies.

Jeff pats his leg “Take the sign and come out with us. Not to pick up, just to have fun.”

On cue, the phone rings. He wills himself not to answer as Jeff grabs his jacket and walks out the door, calling, “Text me!” over his shoulder. 

“Fuck.” Kent gives up and taps the screen. “Hey, Zimms.”

“Hey, Kenny.” Jack’s calls may be inconsistent, but his voice has become reliably tired sounding. “Talk to me?”

“I don’t know what to talk about, anymore,” Kent says. 

“Just, your day or something.” 

“I got a high stick to the face, and I think at least half the old timers kind of hate me —“

“Not hockey,” Jack says. 

Kent just can’t anymore. ““What the fuck do you want from me? Do you know all I do all the time? Play goddamn hockey. Do you even watch my games?”

Silence stretches over the line.

“Fine,” Kent bites out. “We’re in Montreal next week. Figure out what the fuck you want from me before then.”

He hangs up and gets down to the lobby in time to catch the boys and pile into taxis bound for a local bar. 

There are some great fan photos on a couple blogs the next day, and since Kent wasn’t smashed enough to forget to set down his drink before taking them, PR doesn’t hassle him. 

He was still pretty drunk, though. It was a super fun night, except for the part where he forgot his phone in the bathroom. The bar’s FedExing it to Vegas, so it all worked out.

He’s never forgotten it before, even when he was way more drunk, which is super weird. 

He’ll just have to be more careful in the future, that’s all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to summerfrost for the beta, and for telling me what video game idiot hockey boys would probably be playing in 2009. 
> 
>  
> 
> [Kent's banquet suit](https://pbs.twimg.com/profile_images/1041896649457586177/NWo-KHgS_400x400.jpg).
> 
> [ Inspiration for Kent's blue suit](https://gaetanobrand.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/04/OscarWildeBrand13.jpg).


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kent's no enforcer, but if he's going to fight, he's sure as hell going down swinging.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unlike previous chapters, this one is just set in Kent's rookie year. Time travel will resume later.

**Late February 2010**

“Ow!” Kent jerks forward, away from Sheryl’s hands. 

“Hold still,” Sheryl chides as she digs her fingers deeper into Kent’s shoulder. “You haven’t been this locked up since the start of the season.”

“Mmmrphh,” Kent agrees into the towel under his face. 

Sheryl moves on to doing something equally sadistic to Kent’s neck. “I get it, kiddo.”

She doesn’t. The one person who might is lurking somewhere in the nearby suburbs, as close to Kent as a taxi ride, as far away from him as the moon. 

“Alright, I’ve contributed as much as I can toward victory tonight.” Sheryl lightly shoves at his shoulder. “Get up, short stack.”

“I’m 5’10”,” Kent mumbles as he gets off the table.

She squeezes his shoulder. “Sure you are.” She sighs dramatically. “I can’t believe I’m rooting against the Habs. I’m going to have my Quebec citizenship revoked.”

“Probablement,” Kent says, dodging the towel she throws at him.

Half the Rimouski roster is plastered against the glass when Kent skates out for warm-ups. He groans as he reads the posters they brought -- everything from “RIMO 4EVA” to “KENT PARSON IS MY BABY DADDY.” Jan and Tim and Maddy are in the thick of it, and when Maddy turns to say something to her father, Kent sees his last name on the back of her Aces jersey.

He can’t wait to chirp her about it tomorrow when they all have breakfast together.

He doesn’t look up at the box seats, especially not where he knows the Habs management and their special guests sit. He’s watched games from that suite, shoulder to shoulder with Jack, their heads bent together as they rehashed plays. 

He flips a puck over the glass for a little girl wearing his jersey, takes a deep breath, and skates off to find Jeff for their ritual pre-game chest bumps. 

They finish the first period down by two. Kent plasters a smile on for the intermission interview he’s stuck doing. 

“What’s the key to the second period for the Aces?” Miles asks as he holds the microphone to Kent’s face. 

“Keep our cool and give our D a little help.” It’s gotten so easy to do this.

“Sounds good.” Miles grins at him. “A little less excitement than your last time in Montreal?”

 _Fuck you,_ Kent thinks as he keeps smiling, as anger starts to burn through his body. “Yeah, the draft was really something, but any day I’m playing with these guys is exciting.”

He gets one more softball question before he can escape, and when he takes the ice again 15 minutes later he’s still furious. He settles into his stance for the first faceoff, raising his eyes to stare at the Hab in front of him. 

Poor bastard has no idea what he’s in for.

He smirks as his stick connects with the puck. 

* * * *

He’s still wiping sweat out of his eyes when the post-game starts, reporters blocking him into his stall. They got a W, he put up four points, and they’re within striking distance of moving up to second place in the West. He can’t remember much of what he says before the reporters turn to Gooch, and it doesn’t matter. There’s another game in two days, and another after that, and eventually the playoffs, a looming specter that he doesn’t let himself think about. The elation of the win is just enough to keep the ghosts of present and future busy, and he feels good enough to go out for a quick beer with some of the boys after the game. 

Two hours later, he’s nursing his second rum and coke at the bar and debating getting a taxi back to the hotel without his asshole teammates who are well on their way to hammered. 

A pretty brunette in a low-cut top keeps winking at him across the bar, and Kent’s not sure how she ends up in the seat next to him, but she’s there, playing with her hair and giggling at him even though he’s not saying anything. When she gets up to go to the bathroom, Jeff slips in beside him. “Having a good time?”

“Yeah,” Kent lies.

“She’s cute. I’m heading out, but if you wanna make a night of it, I’ll cover for you. Might help you get over that long distance thing.”

“Oh,” Kent says. His mind spits out a possibility. “That’s cool, man. Uh. Sure.”

“Nice.” Jeff holds up his fist, and Kent rolls his eyes and completes the bump. “Have fun, broseph.” 

He leaves and the cute girl returns, and Kent lets a solid 10 minutes pass before he pays both their tabs and makes up an excuse about why he has to leave.

Outside, it only takes a minute to flag down a cab. He makes small talk, a much-needed distraction from counting down the landmarks he knows by heart. 

His Haitian driver just moved to Canada last month, and not only did he not listen to the game, he has no idea who the Habs are or what hockey is really about. It’s perfect. 

By the time Jean slows to a stop in front of the Zimmerman’s house, he’s got the basics down. “Three men on offense, two defenders, and one goalie. Three periods. Get the puck in the goal,” Jean recites. “How am I doing, professor?”

“A+,” Kent says. “Nice work, my man.”

Jean peers out the passenger window. “Lights are out, my friend. You sure this is correct? I can wait.”

Kent hands him a $100 bill. “Nah, you gotta know where to look. Left side, all the way to the back, second floor. That’s the only one that matters. Keep the change.”

As the taxi drives off, Kent pulls out his phone and sends a text. Enough time passes that he starts to regret not taking Jean up on the offer to wait, but then the side door next to the main gate swings open with a buzz. 

Jack’s waiting for him at the front door, arms crossed and face unreadable. 

“So,” Kent says. “You do read my texts.”

“What are you -- ” Jack starts.

Kent cuts him off. “Do you want to congratulate me on my win?”

“Congratulations.” Jack’s voice is flat. 

“Did you watch?” Kent hates the hopeful rise in his voice.

Jack’s eyes dart to the side. “No.”

“Oh. That’s -- have you watched any of my games?”

Jack still won’t meet his eyes. “No.”

It hurts more than Kent expected, but he’s known how to play through the pain since he was in elementary school. 

“Why are you here, Parse?” The heat coming from the house seeps around Jack, but he’s still crossing his arms, hunched in on himself.

Kent shrugs. “I told you last week. Figure out what you want from me.”

Jack raises one eyebrow, an ability Kent has always envied. “I didn’t realize my homework had a deadline.”

“Guess that’s why I’m a hockey player and not a teacher.” Kent squares his shoulders and walks up to the door. Jack steps to the side, giving him just enough room to pass.

He knows this house, knows the path to the bottom of the stairs, knows what Jack’s footsteps sound like as they follow him, then stop. He ignores it and climbs, then stops when he reaches the top. 

Jack is still standing below him. No tentative move toward the first step, no signs of walking away.

Panic starts to bloom in Kent’s chest, but then Jack swears and starts to climb. Kent holds his ground, blocking Jack’s advance when he’s on the last step. 

Being a good two inches taller is unsettling, as is the soft darkness of an empty house stretching behind Jack.

“Why are you here?” Jack repeats.

Kent knows how to craft a play, how to draw his man down the ice, how to make shots no one sees coming, but he also knows that ice and luck are fickle, equally likely to dish out heartbreak as victory. 

He reaches out and presses his palm over Jack’s heart. He can feel the quick rise and fall of Jack’s breathing, feel the pulse knocking against his fingers. He fists his hands in the soft fabric of Jack’s shirt and pulls Jack up the last step. 

“You tell me.” He tugs, and Jack’s body stutters toward him. 

It’s as easy as an empty net goal.

* * * *

It’s just starting to get light, and Jack is watching him as he slowly wakes up. “Hey,” he says, voice scratchy. “It’s almost 7. You okay?”

“Yeah.” Kent stretches and shifts closer. “Got brunch with the Olsens at 10:30. You should come.”

“Can’t,” Jack says. “Gotta coach.”

“Wait, what?” Kent’s confused. “You have a coach? Who?” 

A shy smile steals over Jack’s face. “No, I’m the coach. Pee-wee league.”

“Holy shit.” A beat passes as Kent fully registers Jack’s words. “You’re coaching kids?”

“Yeah.” Jack’s smile gets bigger. “They call me Coach Z.”

“Shit,” Kent says. “That’s so fucking cute.”

“Remember being that age? So much energy you think you’re gonna explode?”

It’s not like asking more questions is going to help Kent’s brain slot Jack into the sidelines of a rink, but Jack’s talking to him, so who cares. “Yeah, I remember. But tell me about it anyway.” 

Jack talks and talks about his team and Kent soaks it in, the most words he’s gotten out of him since June. Jack’s face is soft and relaxed, and Kent wants to kiss him and strangle him in equal measure.

“You really like it, don’t you?” Kent asks when Jack pauses. 

“I do. I should have told you, I guess. Earlier.” 

_Earlier_ , Kent thinks, his mind pasting together timelines from postcards and calls and third-hand news, spinning in more directions than Kent wants to chase, here, with Jack beside him, tracing patterns on the back of Kent’s hand.

Jack laces their fingers together. “Do you feel okay?”

“Why wouldn’t I feel okay?” Kent wrinkles his nose. 

“Uh. Last night. We -- you know.”

“Oh my god.” The tangle of thoughts fade out as a soft warmth spreads low in Kent’s body, fresh muscle memory seeping into the hidden places that he hadn’t known existed a few hours ago. 

He rolls over and buries his face in the pillow. Last night had been -- a lot. He turns his head so that he can see Jack out of one eye. “Was that, uh, I mean, did you...before? With Emily or —?” 

He can’t bring himself to fill in the blank. 

Jack starts to blush. “No, not before. But you did, right?”

“No.” He’s a little lightheaded. It’s weird.

“Oh, I thought -- was it okay?”

There’s probably plenty of words Kent could use to describe what it felt like to have Jack push into him, both of them trembling, Kent hissing at the sharp burn, the foreignness of it all, until the pain faded and all he could feel was Jack’s body, in him and around him, completely overwhelming.

The pale light of morning washes over them, and Jack watches his face with concern in his eyes. “You can tell me the truth.”

The truth has its place, but not here, in the quiet dawn spreading over the bed they’ve shared so many times. The truth would fill the room, crack the walls, shatter the windows, leave them to the elements and to fate, a concept Kent used to believe in.

“It was -- ” Kent pauses. “C'était très bien. Je promets.”

“Even though you didn’t --”

“I don’t have any complaints.” Jack had gotten Kent off with his mouth, the familiarity of it such a contrast to the newness of getting fucked that he’d come almost instantly. 

He’d fallen asleep with Jack’s head on his chest, warm and solid as ever.

“I didn’t make your shoulder worse?” Jack runs his hand over Kent’s right shoulder. “That hit in the second looked pretty bad.”

The thoughts Kent had pushed to the back of his mind start competing for attention again. “Jack,” he says slowly, “did you watch my game last night?”

Jack licks his lips. “Yes.”

“Were you there?”

“No. But -- Ottawa, I was.”

Kent’s so tired of hearing things wrong. “You. Were in the arena when we played Ottawa?”

“Sorry,” Jack says, and that is the last thing Kent wants to hear out of his mouth.

His eyes start to burn. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Jack shrugs and rolls on his back. “C’mon,” he says to the ceiling, “don’t make me say it.”

“Hey, look at me.” Kent sits up and swings his leg over Jack to straddle him and look down at his face. “Why?”

“You won.” Bucking his hips doesn’t work to dislodge Kent, so Jack closes his eyes. “You’re in the NHL, and I’m not.”

There are, it turns out, worse words than sorry. “We were supposed to do it together,” Kent says. “You know that.”

“We would have ended up in different cities, anyway.”

“No shit, I know how the fucking draft works, and you know that’s not what I mean,” Kent’s voice breaks on the last word.

The sound of it makes Jack open his eyes, and Kent’s not quick enough wiping away the tears. 

“Hey,” Jack says, reaching up for his face.

“Don’t.” Kent rolls off of Jack and sits next to him, drawing his knees up to his chest. “You left, and you won’t answer my calls, but, oh, thank god you’ve been watching my games and then not fucking letting me talk about them.”

“Kenny --” Jack pleads.

“Whatever.” There’s a barb that stays stuck to the back of Kent’s tongue, made up of anger and sadness and the truth of the loneliness that covers the hidden parts of him he thought were safe with Jack.

He swallows it down, and instead says, “The boys came down from Rimouski for my game, by the way. When you’re back in the Q they’ll be a whole other group of people to talk to instead of me.”

Jack leans back against the headboard. “You’re being a dick.”

Kent takes a deep breath, holds it for a count of ten, then exhales. He moves to sit by Jack, shoulder to shoulder, suddenly aware of the fact that they’re both naked. “I almost wish I could go back with you, you know? Start over?”

“I’m not going back.”

“What?”

“To Juniors, Jack says. “I’m not going back.”

“I don’t understand,” Kent says. “How else are you going to get in the majors?” 

Jack shifts, a slight move, just enough to break contact. “I’m applying to college. BU or Harvard, or maybe Samwell. My mom went there.”

Kent gets out of bed and pulls on his briefs. 

“What are you doing?” Jack asks. “Are you leaving?”

Kent starts to pace. “I don’t understand. That’s four years. Why would you waste all that time?”

“It’s five, actually.” Jack gets up and slips into pajama pants. “Missed the deadlines for fall, so I have to wait.”

Kent pivots, then walks back across the room. “You’re going to lose five prime years of your career so you can fuck around in undergrad?”

“What career?” Jack snaps. “I’m a giant fuck up, and everyone knows it.”

“Don’t say that.” Kent slumps into the desk chair. 

“Why not?” Jack’s switched to the voice Kent hates, the voice that came out when Rimouski lost, when beating a personal best stalled out. 

Kent knows it well. 

“Why shouldn’t I say it?” Jack presses. “It’s true. I fucked up everything.”

“This is bullshit,” Kent manages between clenched teeth.

“It’s not.” Jack hunches his shoulders and crosses his arms, as if a six-foot tall man could really make himself into a compact thing. “It’s not bullshit at all. You don’t know how hard this has been for me, okay?”

Kent’s knuckles are white where he’s gripping the chair, hands shaking as he fights down the force of his rage. “Shut up, Jack.”

Jack flinches, but Kent can’t stop. “Just shut up if you think coaching kids and going to some cushy-ass college is hard. You know what’s hard? Dragging a shitty team, in a shitty city, to the number two spot in the division, when they didn’t even want me. They wanted you, the golden boy with the fucking golden last name.”

“Stop it,” Jack says. “Don’t.”

He should. He knows he should, the way Jack’s face is going white, the way he can see his chest heaving.

He could help him count breaths. 

He could apologize. 

Or, he could burn the world to ash. 

“Fuck you.” He’s shouting now, and it’s too much, but he can’t stop. “It’s in my face, every single day. You were supposed to go to Vegas, I was supposed to go to Long Island, but you decided to fuck off, and now --”

“Get out, Parse,” Jack says as he sinks down to sit at the side of his bed. “Get the fuck out of my house.”

“Wouldn’t stay if you begged me.” Kent gathers his clothes up and pauses at the doorway. “Zimms, I’m --”

“Just _leave_.”

In the downstairs bathroom, Kent gets dressed. He finds the card Jean had given him in his coat pocket. Ten minutes later, his taxi rolls up and they’re on their way back to the hotel. Mercifully, Jeff’s in the shower when he gets to the room, so he can pretend to sleep till Jan knocks on his door for breakfast. 

The coffee at the restaurant is strong, and the pancakes are almost but not quite as good as Tim’s are, but Tim’s too busy trying to talk Kent into a fishing trip to Pyramid Lake for Kent to tell him that. Madeleine has a blue streak in her hair and seems taller -- she looks great, even if she keeps trying to smile without showing her new braces. 

He hopes that the happiness at seeing them covers his misery, and he’s pretty sure he manages to say the right things at the right time through the numbness blanketing his body. Then again, Jan gives him such a long hug when they drop him off at the hotel that maybe he didn’t do as well as he thinks.

It doesn’t really matter anyway. He can pack his suitcase in his sleep, dirty clothes here, toiletries there, everything zipped up and by the door. He grabs his laptop and checks the battery level, then methodically closes out his open tabs, crimson and red pages blinking away. He pauses on the last one, reads “One in Four, Maybe More,” one last time, then clicks it into oblivion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kaboom, y'all. It was the breakup fight they had to have.
> 
> Coming up next, playoffs. 
> 
> Summerfrost is the wind beneath my wings, my pumpkin waffle with fresh whipped cream, and their despair filled comments on my drafts are treasures.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end of Kent's rookie year / the start of the 2014-2015 year.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve watched Letterkenny since last time I posted and am sad that my hockey lingo vocabulary got so much stronger so late in the writing of this. Sigh. What could have been.
> 
> There was a long delay cause of depression. Alas. Now pitter patter, let’s get at ‘er.

**Late May, 2010**

The camera flashes are blinding him, and later he’ll wonder how the reporters decide who gets to cover the beer guzzling winners and who gets stuck interviewing the mostly stone-faced losers, but right now Kent is busy trying to stop grinning. 

Sure, he’ll cry later, drunk and clinging to Jeff in their hotel room. He’s dreamed about lifting the Stanley Cup since he was four, not of getting within six wins of it and then being sent home to spend a summer licking his wounds. His heart broke when the King’s game-winner sank into the back of the net, and it hurts like hell, a fresh cut over the layers of scars, this one absent of Jack’s name but no less painful for it. 

Whatever. The Calder is in the bag, he’s got more than a fighting chance at the Hart, and Jack can jerk it to whatever sad shit he’s wallowing in at the moment. 

It’s not Kent’s problem any more. 

“Parson,” Kent follows the voice to Bob, one of the locker room reporters he doesn’t hate. “You look awfully happy to have just lost the Western Conference Final in six games.”

“Yeah, man.” Sweat is still dripping into his eyes -- he wishes he had a snapback on. “Showin’ them my teeth, ya know? I heard St. John’s comments about how he planned to sweep us, and mother fuuuuu-ather was, uh. Wrong. Anyway. They think they got the best of us, and that they had the last laugh, but they don’t know us. What doesn’t kill us makes us stronger, and next year I’m -- I mean, we’re hoisting it. No doubt.”

“I’ll be sure to keep that in mind when the office playoff pool comes around, then. One more questions till I leave you alone till October --”

“Great!” Kent chirps sunnily.

“Do you want to address the rumors that you’re shaping up into captain material?”

“Haha, Bob. Great question. Leadership is so important, and I think we just have to dig in next season as a team, for the fans.”

Kent loves how Bob can raise a single eyebrow. He’s practiced so many times and still can’t do it himself.

“And, that wraps it up from the Aces.” The cameraman turns and heads out, but Bob lingers. “Hey, kiddo? Off the record, I was rooting for you.”

“Really?” 

“Yup.”

“Awesome.” Kent starts to untie his skates. “And, 100% on the record, I’m serious about next year. Get ready to interview me while getting covered in champagne.”

* * * *

“I know you’re not asleep.”

“I am,” Kent mumbles. He might as well be. He’s spent the morning chasing kids around the pool of the beach house, and the afternoon lugging antiques from the downtown shops into Jeff’s mom’s massive SUV. He’s tired. He could totally be actually asleep and not just avoiding his mother. Totally.

“Fine,” she says, to his left. “You’re asleep.”

Kent gives up and turns to face her. She’s reclined on one of the cabana’s chaise-lounges, the start of a sunburn showing across her shoulders even in the shade from the Carolina sun. 

He misses her so much. They haven’t had a conversation that lasted more than ten minutes since the draft, and they’d never strayed from hockey and the family.

“Mom? We’re still not okay. Even though you’re here.”

She lowers her glasses and looks at him. “I know, baby. I was surprised you invited me.”

Kent shrugs. “I miss you.” 

“I miss you, too. I’ve started going to therapy.” 

“Okay.” He reaches over and pulls her sunglasses off completely. “Do you --- um. Do you want to tell me about it?”

She turns to face him, regarding him with those hazel eyes he’s always thought were beautiful. “I don’t know what to do. About you.”

When Kent bites his lip, he can taste the salt from his afternoon swim. He’s been more or less sober since the Nilssons and various teammates’ families started arriving at the string of Aces-rented beach houses for the more wholesome week of their post-playoffs vacation. It’s two more days before the real adults and kids all get kicked out so the boys can properly party, but the bar in the downstairs rec room is already fully stocked in preparation, and he knows that he isn’t going to make it through whatever conversation is happening without a drink or three.

“Do you like margaritas?” He stands up and offers his hand to his mom.

“You’re 18. You shouldn’t know if _you_ like margaritas.” They dust dried sand off their legs as best as they can and start to walk to the house Kent’s claimed for three weeks. 

“My son is making me alcoholic drinks,” his mom says maybe ten minutes later as he cracks open a cocktail shaker and pours the contents between two glasses. “This is weird.”

Kent snorts as walks around the bar and settles himself onto the stool next to her. “On the list of weird shit that’s happened to me this season, this is like, not even top 20.” He lifts his glass and salutes his mom with it, then downs half.

She sighs and pushes her own glass to the side, untasted. “Is it really so awful talking to me that you need to be drunk to do it?”

“One drink isn’t drunk, mom.” He maintains eye contact as he drains his glass and then pulls hers over to rest by his elbow. There’s a stupid neon Bud Lite sign flickering over her shoulder. It’s distracting, so Kent focuses on it. “You’re the one who wants to tell me about going to therapy cause your kid turned out to be a fag.” 

“Kent!”

“What?” he snaps. 

She gently takes his hand and weaves their fingers together. “I’m going to therapy because you’re my son and I love you. And maybe --” she hesitates, then reaches over with her free hand to pick up the still full glass on the bar. 

She takes a sip, then squeezes Kent’s hand. “You surprised me, sweetheart. It’s hard for me to wrap my mind around all of it.”

Kent stares at their joined hands. “It was hard for me growing up in your house, so guess we’re even.”

And there’s the sigh Kent’s heard a million times before, prefacing an admonishment about his homework, or the state of his room. “Yeah.”

He must have misheard her. “What?”

She takes another sip of her margarita. “My therapist has brought that up. That maybe it was -- that keeping a secret like that was --” Kent holds his breath through the long pause. 

“Painful, I think, was the word she used.” She won’t meet his eyes. “Anyway, I just wanted you to know. I’m trying.”

He wants to slide off his chair and put his head on her lap, crying out the hurt the way he used to when he was little.

But he’s grown now, and he just can’t, but he can’t let go of her hand, either. “Trying isn’t -- it isn’t enough, mom.”

“Give me time? I get why you didn’t tell me till Jack — till you had to.”

Kent pulls his hand away. “I didn't tell you. You found out because he almost died. You don’t know shit about him.”

“He stayed in our house, baby. We ate meals with him, we cheered for him almost as hard as you. I know he was very important to you, your best friend --”

“I _loved_ him,” Kent says, hating what his voice is doing, hating the way he can see his mother start to flinch before she can control herself. “Tell that to your fucking therapist.”

He takes the bottle of tequila with him as he leaves.

He wakes up in the massive king-sized bed of the master suite he’d claimed for himself hours later. The light coming through the balcony doors tells him he’s just missed sunset. 

Of larger concern is the fact that Jeff is sitting on him, slowly crushing him to death.

“Ugh, lard ass, get off,” Kent says. 

“Smells like tequila in here!” Jeff flicks Kent’s forehead. “What the hell, Parse? You know it’s kids and old people week. You can’t go passing out mid-afternoon in front of impressionable youngsters such as myself --”

“You’re two years older than me --”

“Hey,” Jeff says, sliding off Kent to sit beside him. “You know you can talk to me about stuff, right?”

“Yeah,” Kent says. “I do.” 

“Good. Cause I love you, bro,” he says, his words at odds with the way he’s dragging Kent out of bed by one ankle. “Time to decide. Sober up, or keep drinking?”

“Keep drinking, but you keep me away from my mom? At all costs?”

“Can do.” 

And he does.

Next season, in a decent hotel in a shitty town on a roadie that started falling apart before they even played the first game, Kent will break down and spill out the story, leaving out names and other identifying markers as if Jeff can’t add one and one to get two, and Jeff will cry with him through it, then never, ever mention it again, because that’s how Jeff Troy rolls. An epic beauty of a brother in arms. 

But, tonight, they’re gonna get schwastey and act like jackasses, because that is also how Jeff Troy rolls, and Kent loves him every bit as much as he loves Kent.

They’ll lift the cup together one day, but for now, shots. 

* * * *

“Jesus, for real?” Most of the luxury cars in the area have already been rented out by earlier arrivals, but Remmy managed to find an Escalade, which makes more sense when the doors open and five fellow Vancouver prospects get out.

“Alors,” Remmy says as he wraps Kent up in a crushing hug. “You get shorter?”

“Good to see you too,” Kent gently shoves him away. 

Remmy grins. “See you a lot more next season, eh? Practically neighbors.” 

“Can’t wait, babe. Lemme show you and the boys your rooms.”

There are hockey players everywhere, and even with the pull out sofas and air mattresses, Kent comes up short, so Remmy ends up bunking with Kent in the master suite.

That night they slip away from the party with two six-packs, which Kent happily abandons for the wine coolers Remmy had brought with him. “My mother told me I had to bring a host gift. She called three times about it.”

“She suggested wine coolers?” Kent pops the top and drinks.

Remmy opens a beer. “No, she thought you would want a fancy candle. Did you know those fuckers cost like $40?” 

Kent starts giggling and can’t stop. He’s been drinking since noon, his friends are here, and the weight of the season has vanished, and Remmy’s English is finally good enough to bullshit with Kent the way he’s always wanted to.

“How’d your words get so good?” Kent slurs.

“Hot American girlfriend.” Remmy winks.

“Barf,” Kent throws a pillow at him. “I can’t believe you’re still dating my sister.”

A dopey smile spreads across Remmy’s face. “She’s amazing. I love her.” 

“Shit, man. Really? That’s -- that’s awesome.”

“I don’t know about that, she’s got a shitty older brother who keeps trying to --”

“If you say cock-block --”

“I would not. I’m a gentleman. You know that.”

Kent’s reached the bottom of his second cooler, and he thinks he can be not a dick about Remmy being in actual love with his stupid sister for about 30 seconds. “I’m happy for you.”

“I know.” They clink bottles. “And you? Many of good looking people in Vegas.”

“Nah. Too busy.”

“Uh huh. What about that girl you’re in all those photographs with? You go on a lot of dates with her.”

“Lexi? We’re bros.” 

Remmy flops on his back, his beer balanced precariously on his stomach. “Bros are awesome. Talking about that, do you talk to Jack much?”

“We, uh -- I mean.” Words swim around in his head. “We kind of had a fight.”

Remmy just catches his beer as it tips over. “Really hard year for him.” 

“Hard year for me,” Kent spits.

“Yeah,” Remmy uses his 30-pound advantage to grab Kent and nestle him into his side. “I know it is. You two were --” he pauses. “Close.”

“Something like that,” Kent mumbles. He’s gotten better at shoving Jack to the back of his mind, and right now he’s warm and full of booze and he’s got a week to drink and party, then a week with Robbie’s family at Disney, and whatever happens past that can just wait.

“Love you, man,” Kent says, and the last thing he remembers before passing out is Remmy pressing a smacking kiss to his forehead.

* * * *

“Fuck you, Dillsy, I’m not even legal to buy it, I’m not doing the beer run.”

The kid yelling is from Michigan, was drafted to Vancouver in the 4th round, and is possibly named Joey. Or maybe that’s the kid from Minnesota who was drafted in the 3rd, and this one is named Jamie? 

Kent gives up on roll call. “Schmelts! I know you dumbasses have fake IDs. Go get us beer.”

“Ugh, fine,” a prospect answers. Kent catches a glimpse of a back tattoo as he drags himself out of the pool-- that one is Jamie then, for sure, because Kent got the story of the lost bet that led to the tattoo while they were around the firepit last night. 

He really should write their names on them in Sharpie or something. 

The kid remaining in the pool, who is definitely named Johnny and is on a float that looks like a swan, is the only one who has yet to shake being starstruck if the way he watches Kent out of the corner of his eye and half stutters when he talks to him is any indication.

It’s a shame, cause out of the Aces and Ace-adjacent guys chilling out for the next few days, Johnny is the least obnoxious. He’s also the hottest, a slab of lithe, tanned muscle, impressive considering that he spent the entirety of his spring a couple of miles south of Canada. 

“How the fuck are you tan?” Kent asks, pulling his float over next to Johnny.

“Um. Huh?” 

Kent points at his golden chest. “How?”

Johnny blushes. “I’m Italian?” He glances around. “Should I go on the beer run, too?”

“Nah,” Kent says. “Talk with me a bit. What happened with that goal in the second round of the --”

“Ughh,” he groans. “That goddamn goal.”

Once they start on the familiar ground of bitching about bullshit calls, the conversation goes easy, and Johnny has some truly amazing tales of Juniors shenanigans that, of course, Kent has to try and one up with his own. Eventually, the boys return and more beers get passed around, and before Kent knows it, he and Johnny have been talking for an hour, their toes and fingers shriveled from dangling in the water. 

He doesn’t notice Matts swimming up under him till he’s mid-air, flipped with the force that only a 6’2”, 230-pound defenseman can muster. 

The afternoon slides into night, a dinner of Jeff’s totally decent bbq chicken sopping up some of the booze in their stomachs.

Someone lights the fire pit even though it’s too hot for it. Kent keeps catching Johnny looking at him from across the circle as they all half-assedly sing along to Macky’s terrible acoustic guitar performance. “Beer?” Kent mouths, pointing to the cooler next to him.

Johnny bites his lip and nods, but before Kent can toss him a can, he’s on his way over to sit next to him. “Hey,” he says, as Kent bumps Eddie off the bench to make room. 

Johnny ignores Eddie’s bitching, sits down and takes Kent’s beer from him, and downs the last third of it. 

“Party foul,” Kent says, but he’s already reaching into the cooler for another.

Kent hands him the still dripping can. “Here, freeloader.” 

He pretends not to notice the drop of water that falls onto Johnny’s bare chest. 

He definitely doesn’t follow it down to where it disappears just above the waist of his board shorts, and he definitely doesn’t spend the next five minutes trying to decide if Johnny caught him looking or not.

The vibes are good around the circle. It’s the offseason, so grudges are set aside in favor of shit talking and a good time, and there’s plenty of beer to facilitate both. Johnny’s singing along to whatever Macky’s playing and his voice is nice. So’s his laugh. He’s nice, in general, warm against Kent’s side. Nice guy, nice hands, nice ass.

Fuck.

Kent scrubs his hands over his face. “Okay, it’s lights out for me.” A few guys have already vanished into the house, but the majority seem unlikely to call it a night any time soon. “Don’t burn the place down,” Kent admonishes as he stands up.

“I’m turning in, too,” Johnny says, swaying as he gets to his feet.

“Oh, shit.” Kent reaches out to steady him. “How wasted are you?”

“Very,” he says happily.

“Okay, then We’re gonna get you some water and tuck you in.” 

“Advil, too!” Jeff shouts as they head inside. 

The sounds of the chords of “Wonderwall” being well and truly butchered float into the kitchen. “Ugh,” Kent says, tossing a bottle of red Gatorade to Johnny and taking an orange one for himself. “Let’s take these to go.”

“Oh,” Kent says when they get to the door of the office where Johnny’s been sleeping on a sofa bed. “So --” 

Remmy’s passed out on the couch, cell phone clutched to his chest.

“Yeah,” Johnny says after he swallows a mouthful of Gatorade, and Kent will look away from his red-stained lips at any second, probably. “He falls asleep talking to your sister a lot.”

“That’s sweet and also the worst,” Kent says, turning Johnny by the shoulders back down the hall so he can’t see his stupid, hot face anymore. “Guess you’re in with me tonight.”

 _Goddamn fucking Remmy_ , he thinks.

* * * *

The morning is gorgeous, just hot enough to feel like summer, but not hot enough to turn him off from the steaming cup of coffee Remmy hands over when Kent sits down next to him on the beach. 

“You’re up early,” Kent says, taking a sip and passing the cup back.

“You too. Sorry about last night. Where’d Johnny end up?”

Kent feels his face go hot. “In with me.”

“He’s a good guy. I thought, you know. You two might have -- stuff to talk about.”

“We might --” Kent trails off. 

Last night, they had just gotten settled into bed, the requisite maximum possible amount of bro space between them, but then Johnny had rolled over and kissed Kent, and it had taken all of Kent’s considerable discipline to push him away. “Hey,” he’d said when he saw Johnny’s face fall, right before his eyes went wide with fear. “No, no, no,” Kent had rushed to say. “If you still want to do this in the morning, when you’re not so drunk, we. Uh. Can.”

Johnny had rolled away without saying anything, and it was going to be fine, really. Kent could pretend to forget this ever happened, and it probably wouldn’t make the rest of the week too awkward. 

But then Johnny had gently shaken him awake, the clock just visible over his shoulder reading 5:42 am. “‘S’early,” Kent said. “Go back to sleep.”

“It’s morning,” Johnny said, reaching down and tugging on the waistband of Kent’s briefs, “I’m sober, and I still want to. Or, I can go back to sleep.”

Turns out, 5:42 am was a great time to wake up on a vacation morning. 

Kent forces himself back to the present and stares at the waves rushing in and out until Remmy breaks the silence. “Remember that time I lived with you and Jack for a week?”

It’s a stupid question, so Kent doesn’t answer.

“And how I was this weirdo hick who you were nice to even though I had an embarrassing hero worship thing till I realized that you were just a big dork --”

“Hey!”

“-- and then you helped me with my skills and were a true bro, and now we take summer vacations together and I’m in love with your sister and basically, you’re my family and stuck with me? Remember that?”

“Yes,” Kent whispers.

“Good.” Remmy finishes the coffee. “Don’t forget.”

He’s not sure how long they sit there, enjoying the morning breeze in silence before Remmy pulls him up to his feet and they start back towards the house. 

“Remmy?” Kent says right before they reach the edge of the deck. “Were you really asleep when Johnny and I came to the office last night?”

“The mattress in your room sucks. I’m claiming the sofa bed for the rest of the trip. Wanna wake up the squad?”

“That’s not an answer!” Kent says, but it’s too late, Remmy’s already running toward the pool, whooping at top volume before he cannonballs into the deep end.

Johnny leaves three days later. He and Kent part with a bro-hug and a fist bump, the burn in Kent’s thighs the only thing lingering about their goodbyes. They’ll see each other if Johnny makes it to the show, or maybe they won’t, and it’s all good.

Remmy talks Kent into returning his sensible rented Benz in favor of heading to James and Christine’s in his Escalade. When they pull up to the house James laughs at them till he snorts.

That night, after dinner, he helps James wash dishes. “You are more relaxed than I think I’ve ever seen you,” James says as he hands Kent a plate to dry.

Kent holds back a joke about getting laid, but he realizes James is right. 

Two parents and two full grown hockey players can’t wrangle Robbie and Alana down from their Disney vacation induced euphoria enough to get them into bed, so Kent and Remmy build a sheet fort in the livingroom and eventually the kids crash out with them there. 

The next day, somewhere over Georgia, while Christine and James take full advantage of the complimentary drinks in first class and Robbie and Remmy watch The Princess and the Frog for the millionth time, Kent snuggles with Alana in his seat and watches the little airplane graphic on his screen get closer and closer to Orlando.

In three months he’ll be back at practice, skates cutting into familiar ice. The weight of carrying a franchise on his shoulders can easily settle into the notches on his body that the past three years have carved, with room to spare. 

Alana’s gone from squirming to sleeping. Kent shuts his eyes, matches his breathing to hers.

Exhale. 

Inhale.

Exhale. 

 

**October 11, 2014**

There’s probably a stat nerd somewhere who could tell Kent exactly how many times he’s stood through the national anthem, but he doesn’t really want to know. He shifts his weight and looks up toward the flag, his eyes sliding over to the Ace’s Stanley Cup pennants. No new one to raise tonight, but that’s a problem from last season. This season, this game, this moment. 

The anthem ends and he skates to center ice, lowers himself in to face off position as Remmy does the same across from him, two captains itching for the season to start. 

After the game, Kent raises a glass to Remmy, to his second year on the Schooners, his shining new captaincy, and his grace at losing by two points. Remmy gets Kent into a headlock without spilling either of their drinks, which Kent really should have seen coming. 

It’s a fun party, with the good-natured rivalry between the two teams keeping things entertaining. Jeff makes Kent leave earlier than he wants to, the hazard of your DD being a man who has two kids who wake up early to play with their daddy. 

When Kent gets home he settles into his blanket nest on the couch and holds still to see if Kit will come say hi as he idly swipes through Grindr.

He’s not about to hook up in his hometown, and he doesn’t really want to, anyway, but the possibility of someone good being out there is growing a little more appealing. He’s always going to love Mateo, but that love is going to shift and fade and burnish itself into something old and treasured, stored entirely separate from the sharp, broken edges of what he had with Jack. 

Kit steps onto the pillow next to Kent, hesitant. “What do you think, princess?” He tips the phone toward her. “This guy says he likes romance and eating ass. Swipe right? Or left?” She slowly moves forward and gives the phone a sniff, then darts away to hide under the couch.

“You’re right,” Kent says as he swipes left, then closes the app and opens the group chat with Jeff and Remmy.

_Kent: Reinstalled Grindr. Las Vegas’s number 3 most eligible bachelor is ready to party_

He adds a selfie, blanket nest prominently featured, and sends that, too.

_Remmy: Looks like it. You know Jeff is asleep and I am the only one here to tell you for the millionth time that the blog saying that was not reputable or reliable_

_Kent: Number. Three._

_Remmy: Whatever helps you sleep at night._

_Kent: Wanna help me swipe next time we hangout? Dick pics, dick pics, dick pics!!!_

_Remmy: BON NUIT, KENT._

_Kent: Good nut? I hope so._

_Remmy: I love you but I’m blocking you._

Kent cackles as he makes his way to bed.

One game down, eighty-one to go. This season is going to kick ass. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kent's mom going to therapy is based off one of my friend's mother's doing the same after he came out. 
> 
> Remmy is the best. Love that kid. 
> 
> Thank you as always to Summerfrost for the beta.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kent's going to nurse the wound of Vegas not making the playoffs with workouts, shirtless selfies, being yelled at by his personal assistant, and --- oh. That.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags updated.

_**Las Vegas, April 2015** _

Russian techno blares out of the speakers of Kent’s Range Rover when he starts it up, and something in the back seat definitely smells like the leftover nachos Brodski had sworn he’d taken with him when he stumbled out of the back seat last night. 

“Fuck this,” Kent says, with feeling. His head is pounding. Even though he stopped drinking at midnight, wrangling the team’s youngsters for the rest of the night was exhausting enough to make him feel like he downed shots till sunrise.

Sleeping on the very questionable couch at one of their apartments, with Brodski snoring away on the floor below him, certainly hadn’t helped matters. 

Fortunately, his “Ballin’ bangin’ mornin’” mix delivers like always. He wraps the container of leftovers in several spare shopping bags and sets it on the front seat, then texts Jeff.

_Kent: cming over to put nachos in B’s bed_

_Jeff: how is leaving a single o out of coming faster to type_

_Kent: there’s def an o face in cuming_

_Jeff: that doesn’t even make sense_

_Kent: the nachos or the o face?_

_Jeff: I hate you_

_Kent: B crashed out after partying u shld be glad he didn’t come home_

_Jeff: did you end up babysitting all night?_

_Kent: was brutal, yr turn next time, starbs?_

He waits for Jeff to confirm, then pulls out of the parking space, humming along to Lorde.

“Mi vida!” Kent yells at the drive-thru speaker when Renata’s voice greets him. 

“Dos?” she asks without preamble.

“Si.” 

When Kent gets to the window, his and Jeff’s iced venti double pump vanilla soy lattes, one no whip, one extra whip, are ready. Renata looks at him and sighs. “No Jeff?”

“Renata, you don’t have to pretend that you don’t love me best --”

“Tell Jeff I never buy Troy jersey if he don’t come see me.” 

There’s a picture hanging in the store of Kent and Jeff giving the entire crew signed jerseys, and a certificate recognizing their crucial contributions to the team effort for the cup, through caffeine and general awesomeness. 

In the photo, Renata is hugging Kent, and Jeff swears if you zoom in enough you can see tears in her eyes.

“Te prometo, mi amor,” Kent assures. 

His condo is on the way to Jeff’s house, so he stops by to grab gym clothes. The Aces might be out of the playoffs this year, for which he can thank various insane injuries to their top and second line, and two monumentally fucked up calls in the game that eliminated them, but if Kent isn’t going to be playing hockey through early June, he might as well spend the time getting ripped and chilling with the Troy spawn. 

And Jeff, he guesses. 

John greets him at the front desk as usual. “You have a guest, Mr. Parson, waiting upstairs.” 

“Thanks, man.” Kent wasn’t expecting Lexi to stop by till next week. He thought they’d gotten all the pain in the ass minutia next month’s schedule sorted, but he must have been wrong. 

He scrolls his calendar, which he had planned to ignore till Sunday. Today has a list of tasks, scheduled in half-hour blocks in Lexi’s precise color coding that Kent only pretends not to understand. He skims. Look at contracts, fine, he can fake having done that, returning calls he can put off, that’s cool, so maybe this won’t --

How the fuck did he not get an alert that he has some sort of meeting happening in ten minutes?

“Shit,” he says, thunking his head against the mirrored wall of the elevator. 

He texts Jeff to say coffee is off, mourns for a second or two for the loss of the nacho prank, then braces himself outside his apartment for a pep talk. “You were the top scoring NHL player of the 2013 to 2014 season. You just performed a valiant public service by preventing three shitfaced teenagers from doing god knows what, and you are totally not afraid of your personal assistant and alleged second-best friend.”

He turns the lock and walks in, tossing his keys on the entryway table. “Lexi, first of all, I know my schedule says I’d be looking over that Adidas contract this morning, and I totally will,” he sets his keys in the dish by the door, “and I swear, this is not a walk of shame even if it looks like it, I was babysitting the goddamn rookies all night —“ 

“Good to know,” comes a deep voice to the left of Kent. 

Jack Zimmermann is sitting on his couch.

“Jesus fuck, as if this morning isn’t bad enough,” Kent mumbles. He walks over to the couch and sits down. “Whipped cream or no?”

“Um. No?” 

“Great.” He hands Jeff’s drink over to Jack, then picks up his phone. 

“Lexi, babe,” he says when she picks up, “why the fuck is Jack sitting on my couch?”

“He’s your eleven o’clock. This is what happens when you don’t read the emails I send you. I have five minutes before stats —“

“Yeah, cool, sure, but also, what the hell?”

She sounds tired. “What do you think? He called me last night, and you didn’t have anything else scheduled —“

“It’s not some random possible trade sitting on my couch, it’s _Jack — “_

“I can hear you,” Jack says, eying the barista code on his drink skeptically.

Kent rolls his eyes and walks into his room, shutting the door behind him.

“I’m firing you. You’re fired.”

“Sure, run your own life --”

“You know he and I aren’t --” Kent pauses. “Uh. On good terms.”

“I do know that, thanks. However, I also know how angry management would be if they found out you blew off a chance to meet with him before he signs.”

Kent sighs. “As mad as they were in December when those pictures got around.”

_“_ And people say hockey players aren’t smart. If you want another round of lectures like after December, kick him out and see how long it takes for someone to find out he was here and for the GM to be up your ass --”

“Could you just be my friend instead of my assistant for a second?”

“Hey,” she says, her voice softening into the tone that tells Kent he is well and truly screwed, “maybe this will be good. You two used to be best friends, right?”

“He’s not ever gonna sign here,” Kent whispers. “He hates me.”

“Yes, I’m sure he flew cross country just so he could ruin your weekend. My stats lecture is going to start. Play nice.”

The call cuts off. 

“Sounds like exactly something Zimms would do,” Kent mutters as he puts his phone in his pocket and answers the door. 

Jack is on the couch, still frowning at his latte, even though he’s drunk a quarter of it.

Kent sits down next to him, an inch or two of space between them. “S’up?”

“Hi.”

“So,” Kent says as he kicks off his shoes and swaps then for the sandals under the coffee table, “you’re in my living room, huh?”

Jack shrugs and sets his cup down. “Turnabout is fair play.” 

“Huh?”

“You showed up in my living room unannounced,” Jack clarifies. “Twice. I actually made an appointment.”

“Riiiight.” Kent rarely prays for death outside of playoff overtime shifts, but if whatever saint covers this kind of bullshit showed up and did him a solid, he’d really appreciate it. “You wanna tell me why you’re here or should I guess?”

“December.” Kent’s not sure if Jack sees him flinch. “You asked me to consider Vegas. “

“You were not, uh. Super receptive. Of that.” 

“It was a pretty terrible pitch.“ Jack says.

“Right.” 

“The Kings took me golfing. Boston and Montreal took me to steak houses. Plural.”

“You want me to take you golfing and buy you steak?”

“Something like that.” Jack says. “I’m a very valuable potential asset to a team. ESPN and CBC Sports say so.”

“Uh, right.” His coffee is sweating in his hands. “It’s not, like, secret knowledge, man.”

“So…” Jack takes the last sip of his drink and puts it on the coffee table. His hand is shaking, just a little, when he pulls it away.

“Yeah,” Kent says. “Sure. Where are your bags?”

“In my rental.” 

“Great.” Kent gets up and heads to the kitchen. “You’re driving.”

Jack doesn’t get up from the couch. “I am?”

“I was up all night babysitting idiot rookies. You’re driving, I’m napping. Let’s go.”

“Nice captain voice,” Jack says, catching the Gatorade Kent throws at him when he comes back into the room. 

“Learned it from you,” Kent says, shooting a finger gun. “You gonna listen or you gonna bag skate tomorrow?”

“You’re hilarious,” Jack deadpans as he stands and stretches. He’s got more muscle than the version of him that lives in Kent’s memory does, the sleeves of his t-shirt stretching tight against his arms, the fabric around his middle clinging just enough to outline the ridges of his abs underneath. 

They’re probably not as good as Kent’s, but still. It’s a lot. It's not Kent’s fault that he gets distracted as Jack walks to the front door.

Jack looks back at him, hand on the doorknob. “You coming or you bag skating with me tomorrow?” 

He’s out the door before Kent can roll his eyes.

* * * *

_**Boston, December 2014** _

By the time he sobers up enough to drive back to Boston, the sun is streaking the sky. 

He doesn’t have to be on the bus to the airport till ten, and they don’t play Detroit till tomorrow.

He’s fine.

Three hours later he’s drunk three little bottles of booze from the hotel mini-fridge and is debating if a fourth will make it impossible to pass for sober when the bus leaves in an hour.

He eyes the selection left. No more vodka. 

He groans as he shuts the door and picks up his phone. 

Mateo answers on the second ring, and Kent doesn’t get past a croaky hello before he’s sighing deeply. “What’s wrong?”

“I did a stupid thing,” Kent moans.

“Not the first time.” 

Kent laughs hard enough at the irony that he gets hiccups.

“Kent?” Mateo’s voice sounds worried.

“I went to Samwell again.”

“You did not.”

“I know that last time was bad, but --”

“Bad? You’re going with ‘bad’?” Something clinks in the background. 

“I didn’t mean --” Kent starts, but Mateo cuts him off.

“How hard did you have to lie to yourself to think this was a good idea?” Kent curls into himself on the floor as Mateo keeps going. “He doesn’t give a shit about you.” 

“I know,” Kent manages. “I know, but I -- I had to try.”

“Oh, like you didn’t last time. What was your brilliant strategy this round?” Sarcasm’s always been a crappy cover for Mateo’s anger; it doesn’t hurt less knowing that, though. “Did you suck his dick again before he screamed at you and kicked you out, or did you come up with something new?”

“No,” Kent whispers. “It wasn’t — I walked out.”

“Well, isn’t that nice.”

“Matty --”

“Fuck.” The anger goes out of his voice. “I’m sorry, that was below the belt. And I shouldn’t have yelled at you.”

“I shouldn’t have called you,” Kent says. “I’m sorry, too.”

“Yeah, we can talk about that later.” Mateo sighs. “You worked so hard to get past this. I thought you were over him, for real.”

He can feel the stress of the night manifesting in his neck, an aching line hammering home the reality of what he’s done. “I said really horrible things to him.”

There’s a long lull before Mateo speaks again. “I can’t go through this with you again. Not even as a friend. Too many bad memories.”

“I know.” He spins one of the empty bottles. “I still don’t get why you came back. Last time,” he clarifies, as if Mateo were likely to have forgotten one of Kent’s biggest regrets. 

“I know that’s not true,” Mateo says, a little softer, “but you’re having a bad night, so for the millionth time, I forgave you because I was in love with you.”

“Sucked for you.”

“It did. A lot. And we got through it. This guy, though, hasn’t really given me the impression that he’s going to take the time to work through your shit with you. You are worth so much more than this.” Mateo pauses. “You still there?”

“Yeah.” Kent doesn’t feel worth much, crying and drunk at 9 am on a hotel floor in Boston, all broken up about Jack again, the memory of his hands gripping Kent’s hips the night before vying with the memory of the look in his eyes when Kent ---

\--when he.

“I’m the asshole this time,” he mumbles. 

Mateo sighs. “I’m sure you two can share the title. Where are you, anyway?”

They talk a little longer, until Kent feels less pathetic about the night before and more pathetic about calling his ex to cry about another ex. 

He washes his face, does some yoga, and carefully gets dressed, putting on his Gucci sunglasses just before he walks out the door.

He doesn’t take them off till they land in Detroit.

_**Las Vegas, April 2015** _

The truck rolling to a stop wakes up Kent. He’s only drooled on the side of his mouth not facing Jack, and he’s thankful for that small mercy.

In the driver’s seat, Jack has the window rolled down and is taking pictures of the desert landscape as heat seeps into the cool air of the car. “That’s a serious camera you got there,” Kent says as he twists to work a crick out of his neck. 

“Got it for a class.” He takes another shot. “You still into photography?”

“Yeah,” Kent answers. “You any good?”

Jack shrugs and hands the camera over. It’s the same Nikon Kent has, and it’s quick work to flip through the stored shots. Lots of nature, lots of bros, and a lot of a short blond kid. 

Kent doesn’t know shit about actual photography. “Nice angles.”

“Thanks,” Jack says, as he puts the truck in drive and merges back onto the road. 

Kent raises the camera and centers it on Jack.

* * * *

“This...isn’t your house,” Jack says when he comes out of the bathroom. 

“What was your first clue?” Kent asks as he roots through a dresser drawer. Jackpot. 

“Here,” he says, tossing swim trunks to Jack. 

He catches them, then gestures back to the bathroom. “There’s an Emmy in the bathroom.”

“Yeah, so guests can practice their winner speech in the mirror. I’m surprised you even recognize what an Emmy is.”

“My mom has two.” Jack drops trou to put on the trunks. He’s facing away from Kent, his glorious ass on full display. 

“I think I used to know that.” Kent watches Jack’s back muscles as he adjusts the waistband and fuck, this was a bad idea. “That one’s for Outstanding Daytime Talent in Spanish.” 

“Ah,” Jack says. “That explains nothing.”

“I’m a man of mystery,” Kent says over his shoulder as he opens the patio door and steps into the sun.

The blaze of June is still a couple of months away, and Kent’s come to find an 80-degree day pleasant. He sits at the edge of the pool and dangles his legs in the water, enjoying the sun on his back. It only takes a minute for Jack to join him, their shoulders knocking together, and Jack’s leg brushing his. 

Kent takes a deep breath and pushes himself up and over into the sparkling blue water.

* * * *

“And that was how Jeff and I got kicked out of a very small town in Greece.” It’s a good story, and Jack laughed at the right times. Kent’s not sure if stories about being drunk in Europe count as wooing Jack to the Aces, but they can’t hurt, right?

“Jeff sounds like a good guy,” Jack says from where he’s treading water. Kent’s on a raft a few feet away. 

“He is. I owe him a lot. You two would get along.”

“Sure,” Jack says. “You get to see Remmy much?”

“Not as much as I’d like. You know he and Kristen are engaged?” 

“What?” Jack forgets to kick his legs and sinks into the water, spitting out a mouthful when he resurfaces. “You’re joking.”

“Nah,” Kent drawls. “He put a ring on it day after he was announced as captain.”

“I can’t believe he’s engaged. To like, an actual real-life girl.” Jack manages to grab a pool noodle and tucks the ends under his arms. “He couldn’t even talk to girls back when we met him.”

Kent snorts. “Definitely grew out of that.”

“You think about it much?” Jack asks. “When we were in the Q?”

“Juniors? Sure. Gotta know the upcoming talent.”

Jack splashes him. “You know that’s not what I mean.”

The skin on his nose is starting to burn. “Not as much as I used to. You?”

“More than I used to.” 

“Distance makes the heart grow fonder, huh?”

“I think the saying is ‘absence makes the heart grow fonder.’”

“Jury’s still out on that.” 

Kent slips off the raft and leaves to find more sunscreen. 

He comes back outside and joins Jack on the shaded chaise lounges. 

“I do, you know.” Jack turns to face Kent.

“Huh?” Kent can see himself in Jack’s mirrored shades. His hair is a disaster. “You do what?”

“When you came to Samwell,” Jack says, “you asked me a question.”

Kent rubs lotion across his face. “That night is kind of a blur of shame and beer pong. Refresh my memory.”

“Didja miss me?”

“Right.” He gives up on the sunscreen. “That’s my line.”

“So, I’m answering it.” Jack pushes up from the chair. “I did. Miss you.”

“Wait,” Kent says. “Do, or did?”

“Jury’s still out on that.” Jack sets his sunglasses down on the table, and Kent watches him walk back to the pool, the brilliant sun washing out his pale skin.

His swan dive into the deep end is perfect.

* * * * 

They get back to the city in time to watch the sunset from the 63rd story windows of The Foundation as they eat truly epic steaks. It’s early for dinner, but Jack’s running 3 hours ahead and Kent’s car nap sucked. After dessert, they agree to call it a night.

When Jack’s shut the door on the guest room for the night, Kent goes in his own room and takes a scalding hot shower that’s long enough for him to feel guilty about water waste. 

He’s definitely been in bed, eyes wide open, for a good half an hour when his phone buzzes with a text. 

_Are you asleep?_

Kent taps out a “no” before he can second guess it, and a few seconds later his door is being pushed open, and then Jack is over him, pulling him into a hard kiss. 

They’re both a little breathless when he pulls back. “You shouldn’t have come to Samwell.”

“I know,” Kent says. “Christ, I know. I’m so sorry about what I said.”

“Don’t do it again,” Jack says.

“Come to your college?” 

“No,” Jack says. “Talk to me like that. Leave me like that.”

Jack drops his head, his soft hair tickling Kent’s chin, and stays like that long enough for Kent to worry. “Jack?” he asks, softly. He slips two fingers under his chin and gently raises his head. 

Jack’s pale eyes bring up the ghost of being 17, and Kent takes in a shaky breath, but before he can find words, Jack kisses him again.

Kent had dreamed of this, of having Jack in his bed, their bodies hot and pressed together. He’d always imagined that it would feel like a homecoming, but it’s not, it’s new and maybe better. They’re both stronger, heavier, moving slower than they did when they were horny teenagers, the drag of mouths and hands against skin something to savor instead of a quick stop on the way to orgasm.

Jack takes his time making his way lower and lower, a hot trail of teasing kisses and bites. He works down the sharp cut of Kent’s abs, then moves down to suck bruises on his inner thigh, and Kent’s writhing by the time he makes it to his cock. 

Jack doesn't go any faster once he's got Kent in his mouth, just pushes Kent's legs further apart and settles in.

When Kent finally comes it’s a slow wave, intense enough to almost hurt. 

It takes a good few minutes before he’s steady enough to return the favor. He draws it out till Jack is cursing, the muscles of his torso stretched taut and his legs shaking. Kent pulls off just as he starts coming so he can watch Jack’s face, fixing his gaze on his perfect mouth opening and closing as he gasps for breath. 

Jack rolls away from Kent and stares at the ceiling. “You’ve gotten way better at that.”

“I’d be offended for 17-year-old me, but I know you’re right. Question for you.”

“Yeah.”

“What the hell was that?”

“An alternate version of December.” Jack throws his arm over his eyes. “I’ll be in the NHL soon.”

“I’m aware,” Kent says, sidestepping the non sequitur. 

“It’s harder than I thought it would be. It doesn’t feel like that summer, but it does, you know?”

“I really don’t,” Kent says.

Jack sighs. “You fucked me up when you came to Samwell.”

“You didn’t deserve that.”

“I know. And you didn’t deserve me cutting you out.”

The words slice a straight line to Kent’s heart, a sword unerringly finding the weak part of his armor. 

It hurts like hell, 

“You’re right. I didn’t.” He turns away from Jack.

“Kenny?” Jack’s hand is warm on his shoulder. “You’re shaking.”

“I know. I’m fighting it.” He focuses on the scratched up edge of the rug, Kit’s favorite form of artistic expression. 

She’s currently hiding from Jack under the guest room bed. 

Kent considers joining her. 

Jack’s voice is at his ear, soft and low. “Fighting what?” 

He forces words out. “The thing I do where I toss a lit match behind me as I walk out the door.”

“Uh --”

“Like what I did when I saw you last time. My therapist told me that. I go to therapy now. Well, again. A post-Samwell tradition. Anyway,” Kent can hear himself rambling, a desperate attempt to outrun the barbs he so badly wants to throw, to outrun the part of him screaming to hurt Jack before he can hurt him. “I want to say really mean things to you again, and I’m trying really hard not to, so could you like, spoon me or something?” 

“Sure.” Jack rearranges them into a loose embrace. 

Kent’s missed having someone in his bed, and Jack’s fingers feel so good in his hair. He’s so tired, but their earlier conversation is catching up with him. 

“Hey, Jack?” He says slowly, “when you said this was an alternate version of December, does that mean we could have fucked then?”

“Guess we’ll never know.” Jack yawns. “Tired. Go to sleep.”

Kent forces himself to stay awake long enough to hear gentle snoring, matches his breath to it, and sleeps. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And 100K later, we finally hit the idea I had that kicked off this whole thing: after the Frozen Four loss, Jack goes to Vegas.
> 
> One more chapter! I think!
> 
> Thank you to summerfrost as always for their magnificent beta work.


End file.
